


The Parson's Son

by Edhla



Series: After the Fall [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:21:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 44,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edhla/pseuds/Edhla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young man accused of a grotesque crime, and a small village rife with racism and petty feuds. Boring? Maybe. But Sherlock takes the case, the first since his return- and he takes it alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to "Come Forth, Lazarus", which is itself a sequel to "After the Fall." They'll make much more sense to you if you read in this order!
> 
> This is a modern-day retelling of a real case, which you can find easily elsewhere online. The case against George Edalji, sometimes know as the Great Wyrley Outrages, was worked on by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle himself. The result was the first Criminal Court of Appeal, established in 1907.

_Dammit._

For the fifth time in three days, John turned on the hall light switch and remembered that the bulb had blown last Sunday. This wouldn't have posed any problems six months before. But now, number three on the ridiculously long list of things John was Not Allowed To Do, courtesy of Dr. Hanrahan, was: _raise arms above shoulder level._

Couldn't run. Couldn't climb. Couldn't lift anything heavier than Casper, and that included Toby, who was a great lump of a cat and who didn't understand at all why the sudden change in John's body language. He was taking it _personally._

Hopefully, that last rule wasn't going to last much longer. John wasn't entirely sure, having little personal experience as yet, but he suspected that a baby quickly became heavier than a cat.

_Stay away from crowds. Avoid being cold or wet. Have the most careful sex imaginable._

It was all quite intolerable.

But just then, the hall being in deep shadow at three in the afternoon was most intolerable of all.

He'd kept meaning to remind Molly about it. A chair and two minutes of her time would be all that was needed. But he'd kept forgetting to mention it, and Molly had other fish to fry. She was rushing out the door to work in a disorganised flap most mornings, and coming home tired and hollowed-out ten and sometimes even twelve hours later.

But at least she'd stopped throwing up every ten minutes, and was back at work again at all. Those first two weeks after the hospital had been the worst for both of them. She had made the sweetest and most patient nurse in the world- and John had found, with a lot of bitterness and self-loathing, that he made the surliest, sulkiest, most difficult patient in the world. It sure as hell hadn't been a time of quality marital moments. John was fairly certain that they'd both hated every second of those weeks.

Dismissing the light with another flick of the switch, he went back into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. Before leaving for work, Molly had taken the coffee down off the shelf where the canister usually lived, for his easy access- _can't lift arms above shoulder level._ He grudgingly boiled the kettle.

There was _one_ thing he could boldly go ahead and do without fear of that disappointed, worried look Molly had perfected so well…

He refused to go back to Ella, or to any other kind of therapist. But the basic principles he'd learned over all that time in therapy had stuck; _get it out before it eats you alive, even if you only write it to yourself._ The blog was a thing of the past- it had been inactive for years now. But that hadn't stopped John from opening the occasional Word document and furtively pecking out something awkward.

_I'm bored. I'm SO bored._

_I'm trying to not blame anyone._

_They said they didn't have a choice._

_Sherlock saved my life. He explained it… I believe him._

_Things are going well._

_I'm alive, Sherlock's alive, Molly's alive. Baby. Everything's great._

Inevitably, the program would ask him: _do you want to save changes you made to Document1?_

And he would click the appropriate button: _no._

But aside from the occasional "blog post" that nobody ever saw, there was always the rest of the internet. Some sites that could be discussed in polite company. Some that couldn't. And then there was Sherlock's website, which was an odd sort of no-man's-land between the two, and which he had necromanced back to life.

* * *

**_I'm alive and have resumed work. My number has changed. See side panel. Thank you._ **

\- _SH. February 16th._

* * *

No work since then, apparently- no work that Sherlock was prepared to actually take, anyway, though as the days and then weeks had passed since then, John had perceived Sherlock getting more and more bored. His resistance was low. Over two months after his grand re-entrance, he was prepared to take on an escaped rabbit by now, no doubt.

Loading up the website, coffee at his elbow and both cats at his feet, John immediately noticed that there had been an unusual lot of activity since he'd checked things out, the weekend before.

* * *

**_Dear Mr Holmes,_ **

**_Forgive me for contacting you like this, but I couldn't get an answer to my email. My name is Caroline Edalji. My son George has been sentenced to twelve months in prison. My niece suggested you and gave me your website. Please help. We are willing to pay._ **

* * *

**_I don't work for money._ **

_SH._

* * *

**_Then work for good._ **

* * *

**_No, I don't work for good, either._ **

_SH._

* * *

**_We've heard such good things about your work. I've been looking through your past cases here on your site. Quite extraordinary. I'm sure you'd be able to help. Could I phone you?_ **

* * *

**_I don't talk on the phone. Text only._ **

_SH._

* * *

**_Then I'll come to London to see you. We need help, please._ **

* * *

**_Then pray that your case interests me. What has young George done, then?_ **

_SH._

* * *

**_He's been accused of pony mutilation._ **

* * *

The eleven minutes between this shocking proclamation, and Sherlock's reply, gave away the fact that his interest had been piqued. He was possibly even searching online. The corner of John's mouth twitched slightly as he read on. _Pony_ _mutilation?_ Sounds like something Sherlock would sink his teeth into. In a manner of speaking.

* * *

**_I'm the world's greatest detective, Mrs Edalji. It sounds like your son needs the world's greatest lawyer._ **

_-SH._

* * *

Yep. Google. The bloody cheater.

* * *

**_He's innocent!_ **

* * *

**_As I said, lawyer. That is what lawyers do._ **

_SH_

* * *

**_Mr Holmes, just an hour of your time. Please._ **

* * *

Another gap in the posting times- this one was just over half an hour.

* * *

**_Text me the details. My mobile number's on the sidebar._ **

_SH_

* * *

**_Hope you take the case Sherlock. You've been growling at everybody like a bear with a sore head lately._ **

_GL._

* * *

**_Thank you, Inspector. I don't need your commentary on the situation. Incidentally, please learn how to use a comma correctly._ **

_SH_

* * *

All this was timestamped between 7:03 and 8:26 the night before last. John had spoken with Sherlock at length just last night, and he hadn't said a word about any of it.

_Bastard._

John snapped the laptop shut in a rage (regretting it at the last minute. C _an't-afford-any-new-gadgets-because-we-are-now-a-o ne-income-family.)_ He got up, found his phone on the kitchen bench, and shot off a text to a well known number.

* * *

**_When were you going to tell me you got a case?_ **

_3:04pm_

* * *

**_I haven't got a case. I saw Caroline Edalji yesterday. Boring._ **

_SH_

_3:07pm_

* * *

**_You saw her WITHOUT ME._ **

_3:07pm_

* * *

**_You'd have been as bored as I was._ **

_SH_

_3:08pm_

* * *

**_Seriously doubt it. And why do you keep signing your texts anyway? That's so annoying. Nobody signs their texts._ **

_3:13pm_

* * *

**_Mycroft does._ **

_SH._

_3:15pm_

* * *

**_Nobody normal signs their texts._ **

_3:16pm_

* * *

**_It's polite._ **

_SH._

_3:16pm_

* * *

**_HA!_ **

_3:17pm_

* * *

**_Stop sulking and answer your phone._ **

_SH_

_3:21pm_

* * *

**_Answer your phone, John._ **

_SH_

_3:23pm_

* * *

**_Don't ignore me._ **

_SH_

_3:25pm_

* * *

**_I am calling Molly in precisely three minutes if you don't answer your phone._ **

_SH._

_3:28pm_

* * *

**_And Harry._ **

_SH._

_3:29pm_

* * *

**_And Mrs Hudson._ **

_SH._

_3:29pm_

* * *

**_And Lestrade._ **

_SH._

_3:29pm_

* * *

**_One minute._ **

_SH._

_3:30pm_

* * *

"Oh, _that's_ mature of you," John snapped down the line as he picked up twenty seconds later. "Yes, great, let's call half of London and worry them, just because-"

"Mature?" Sherlock sounded shocked and aggrieved that anyone would dare accuse him of immaturity. "John, _you're_ the one being childish about this. All because I saw a client without you-"

"You've _never_ seen a client without me before. Not once. That's not the way we work, Sherlock."

Silence.

"Oh," John said, briefly and quietly. "Um. It's… like that, then."

Sherlock sighed heavily. "Like what?" he asked peevishly. "John, I had a mad parson's wife spamming my website. To get her to stop it, I went to Staffordshire to see her yesterday. The case was utterly boring- some petty little village drama."

"A parson's son who's been accused of gutting ponies? Sounds bloody interesting to me."

"I applaud your choice of words." John rolled his eyes. "Anyhow, it isn't interesting, and I'm not going to take it. The end."

"You seemed to be having quite the interested conversation with Mrs Edalji on your website."

"I changed my mind."

John paused thoughtfully for a few seconds. Sherlock didn't bother with online searches unless he was interested in the first place. Nor did he go out all the way to Staffordshire for something he thought would be boring. He wouldn't walk from his bedroom at Baker Street to the kitchen for something he suspected might be _boring_.

"Sherlock, listen, you know, I _want_ you to take cases," he told him. Just then Toby, demanding attention, jumped onto the kitchen bench beside him. John swatted vaguely in his direction. _Not-allowed-to-lift-the-cat._ "I just want you to take cases _with me._ I'm going stark raving spare over here all day with nothing to do."

"Any reason less... self-interested?"

"Because you..." John paused. "Because we operate better when I get 'round victims and witnesses and suspects, and you do all that... looking around that I can't do."

"I'm capable of interviewing people on my own," Sherlock protested.

"No, you're not. Look, I don't know who's been in your ear about this-" John suspected strongly that it was Lestrade- "but I'm not made of glass. It's been four months since I took that bullet. I'm fine."

"How's the physiotherapy going, John?"

* * *

A second later, Sherlock found himself listening to the hum of a disconnected line.

Hmm. Perhaps… perhaps he _shouldn't_ have made that remark about the physiotherapy.

No, John needed to _grow up_ about this. He was not a consulting detective himself, and he was of absolutely no use while he was still unable to fulfill some basic tasks. Like defend himself.

Sherlock threw the phone petulantly down onto his bed, so hard that it bounced off the mattress and hit the floor with a loud, satisfying clatter. Ignoring this- even though the phone may have broken, judging from the sound- he stalked back down the hallway. As he reached the end, he adopted the almost-manic false smile that was the best he could do under certain social circumstances, and which made most people extremely uneasy.

"Dreadfully sorry about that. Personal matter. Not important." He addressed the middle-aged, sleekly dressed woman sitting in the old patchwork armchair. John's armchair. He threw himself into the one opposite her, perched up on the back of it like an owl. He steepled his fingers to his lips and looked penetratingly at her with his pale grey eyes.

"Now tell me, Mrs Edalji, clearly, concisely and in a non-boring fashion. How did all this start?"


	2. Chapter 2

At first glance, Caroline Edalji appeared to be a respectable, middle-class, plump, placid little parson's wife. And no doubt, that was all most people saw of it, because most people weren't Sherlock Holmes. Most people couldn't see that she had been promiscuous in her youth, that she was a vegetarian, that there was another child, younger than George, that she didn't speak to in a most un-Christianlike way. When she spoke, it was with a Tyneside accent corrected into RP by many years of practice. When she was nervous, she fidgeted like a schoolgirl. And she was nervous now, with the strange, exotic creature in the chair next to her watching her every move, each twitch of her face.

"These… incidents… started last summer," she told him demurely, eyes cast down to the hands she held in her lap.

"Yes, let's talk about these _incidents,"_ Sherlock interrupted her. _"_ Pony mutilations. The details. Don't be prissy. I don't believe a woman who would marry a Parsi clergyman against the wishes of her entire family would be prissy by nature."

She looked up at him and blinked in surprise. "How did you-"

"The details," he persisted calmly. "We'll talk about your husband later."

She dug into her handbag and brought out a tissue; then, seeing Sherlock's expression, put it back. "My husband has been the parson at Great Wyrley for thirty-two years, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock sighed and glanced up at the ceiling. "Is that relevant to the case at hand?"

She looked up at him, a flash of anger in her eyes. "Yes, as it happens," she said icily. "As you so aptly pointed out, there are some places where an Indian-born clergyman and his four bi-racial children are not particularly welcome."

"Five."

This time, he saw the woman recoil into her chair. "Excuse me?"

"Five children," Sherlock told her calmly. "I suppose the fifth lives far enough away now that you can safely forget… her? A daughter, yes. Somewhere you can safely pretend she doesn't exist. Though you think about her more often than you would ever admit to."

Mrs Edalji drew herself up and lifted her chin. "… Is that relevant to the case at hand?"

A smile flickered at the edges of Sherlock's lips, and the ice in his eyes thawed out a little. A proud woman, but a clever one; strong-minded, not inclined toward melodrama or letting her emotions get the better of her. To Sherlock, this all meant one thing: ideal client.

"Well played, Mrs Edalji," he admitted. "Now, if you can please continue with relevant details…"

"As I've been trying to explain to you for the past few minutes now, Mr Holmes, this all started at the end of last summer," she continued, in tones that dared Sherlock to interrupt her again. "I said _pony_ in my message, but that was only the latest. To my knowledge, there's been two sheep, three calves, a number of chickens, and now this attack on that poor pony is the most recent."

"And the pony incident is the one George has been arrested for?"

"Yes."

"Has he been charged with any of the other attacks?"

"No."

"And tell me, Mrs Edalji, did the poison pen letters start before or after these attacks-? Don't ask how I knew that." This was before she could interrupt him. "We've established that your family has not been very welcome in Great Wyrley, even though you've been at the service of the parish for over thirty years. Thirty years of animosity- and now it's finally erupted into depredations on farm animals and a rather nasty accusation against your son."

_Sherlock._

John was on the other side of London. And yet, he'd managed to train Sherlock into distinctly imagining that quiet admonishment whenever he was straying into Not Good territory. Undoubtedly, if he'd been on hand, those syllables would have been audible. Mrs Edalji's face had hardened into that offended intractability that was death to an investigation. He was confused- until he realised he'd spoken these last words with a smile on his face.

"You seem amused, Mr Holmes," she said coldly.

"Not amused," he backtracked. "I'm… interested. Being interested… amuses me. The letters. Mrs Edalji."

"Thirty-four of them over two years," she said resignedly. "At first they were addressed to my husband. We thought they were just a nasty and rather silly prank, and threw the first three out."

"No, you didn't," Sherlock told her.

"I'm sorry?"

"You didn't throw them out. Nobody _ever_ does that. There are two types of letters that rarely get tossed away, Mrs Edalji- love letters and poison pens." He paused. "What did it accuse your husband of?"

"Is that relevant?"

"Yes."

She sighed. "We have a niece, Hannah-"

"Your niece, or your husband's?"

"Mine."

"Her parents don't object to your contact with her?"

"Her parents are dead- well, my brother is. Her mother is remarried and living in Birmingham, and we have no contact with her. But Hannah's a grown woman, and yes, we get along very well with her."

"And your husband was accused of interfering with her?"

She nodded.

"And I imagine your husband was just as disgusted as everyone else in your family. But then those accusations stopped. Why?"

"I don't know."

He lowered his head slightly, without shifting his gaze. "Why?" he persisted, as if to himself.

She sighed. "I don't _know,_ Mr Holmes," she told him crossly. "They stopped making those accusations when my husband started losing his sight. Then the… focus of the letters shifted. To George."

"George and Hannah?"

"No. They weren't… accusing him of that kind of thing. They were just… talking about the animals."

Sherlock tilted his head back and shut his eyes, thinking hard for half a minute or so.

No, there was really no way he was going to be able to solve this crime from Baker Street. Nor could he send John out on location. There was only one other option.

* * *

It was five o'clock at last, and DI Greg Lestrade was about to clock off, when there was a knock on his open office door. He looked up. Sherlock Holmes neither waited for permission, nor asked to come in; he simply strolled in uninvited.

"Oh, it's you," Lestrade was wading through the paperwork on his desk and trying to put it in some sort of order before going home. "Who the bloody hell keeps letting you into the building, anyway?"

"Donovan let me in," Sherlock's tones were triumphant.

Lestrade sometimes wondered if Sherlock realised just how many detectives at Scotland Yard, and interested parties outside of it, now knew about his history with Donovan. And whether he realised that Donovan and himself were the only two Yarders who didn't find the whole thing hilarious. Sherlock may not have kidnapped and poisoned the Bruhl children, but two and a half years in exile hadn't softened his abrasive personality one bit. Being cleared of a felony did not make him a saint. "Sherlock," he groaned. "I'm kind of busy-"

"No, you're not," Sherlock folded himself into the nearest chair, legs crossed, jiggling one foot restlessly. "You're about to go home. Furthermore, it's obvious you've been spending most of this afternoon doing precious little of anything, and not the happier for it." He pointed. "Your thumbs."

Lestrade looked down at them. "What about them?"

"Impressions near the nail, from repeatedly tweaking the buttons on your phone. Your brand new phone, as a matter of fact." He glanced at the vague outline in Lestrade's jacket pocket. "Blackberry Q10, is it? You don't get those red pressure marks in any other way. You weren't texting, either- you'd have to be texting a novel to get those results. Angry Birds?"

Lestrade coughed and glanced out the window. "Matthew got me into it," he admitted. "I think you'd like it, Sherlock."

"I doubt it. With an idiotic name, and an idiotic premise, I can only conclude that it's rather an idiotic game."

Lestrade sighed and rolled his eyes. "Okay, it's clear you're here because you want something. What do I have to do to get you out of the place, before Dawson comes in and has a coronary?"

"Lestrade, this cringing and hand-wringing about Chief Superintendant Dawson is getting very tedious. Every time you say his name, I now can't help but imagine him tying a screaming woman to train tracks and twirling his moustache. You know entirely well that Dawson cannot and will not fire you."

"No, well, maybe he won't," Lestrade conceded. Since he _hadn't_ been fired yet, he'd slowly realised that there was some reason for that, though he was still not sure what that reasn was. "But having him on my case every day isn't much fun, either."

Sherlock still did not understand- or care to understand- how his friendship with Lestrade had impacted the man's working life, and made him the least popular person in the office. Most ridiculed him; some still believed there was "something odd" going on between him and Sherlock, and the solved crimes they left in their wake.

"Come on, Sherlock. I want to get out of here. What do _you_ want?"

"I want you to contact the Staffordshire Police and get them to give me access to the case files on George Edalji."

"The case files on who?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You saw. On the website the other day."

"Oh, that. The parson's wife, and the pony." Lestrade paused, swinging on his chair and clicking his pen. "Thought you were bored by that one. You're really taking the case?"

"Yes, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't discuss this with John."

"He's going to hit the bloody roof, Sherlock."

"I'm afraid that may have already happened." Sherlock sounded miffed. "The _case_ _files_ , Inspector. I absolutely can't continue on this case without having access to them. Statements. Photographs. Everything. I also need access to interview George Edalji in person."

"Why do you keep doing this to me?" Lestrade moaned, putting his face in his hands for a second. "Sherlock, you know I can't just procure things for you like that, especially with just a phone call. I'm not a magician. I'm not even the most senior detective around here."

"No. But you're the most senior detective who'll work with me."

"Yeah, well, the Staffordshire constabulary might not work with _me,_ did you ever consider that?" Lestrade was now fishing around his disaster of a desk drawer, evidently hunting something. "Why don't you bother _Mycroft_ to get this information for you?"

"Mycroft is currently in Ghana, and I've been told not to contact him except in circumstances of extreme emergency."

Lestrade paused and looked at him, then sighed and continued his search. "Yep," he muttered. "I think we can all agree that a gutted pony in the West Midlands isn't worth calling Mycroft in Ghana over. Look, I'll make some phone calls, Sherlock. _Tomorrow_. And if you keep giving me that sulky look, it'll be Friday."

Sherlock huffed, but he accepted the offer and rose. "I'll let you know what I find out," he offered generously. "And once again, I have John rather put out as it is, any further mentions of the case around him would be- less than good. Oh, and by the way, Lestrade…" he paused in the doorway and turned around. "It's Hayley."

"… What?"

"That new young DC on your team- Jacob Dyer." Sherlock was smiling in a way he rarely did- except on the odd occasion when he was genuinely, good-spiritedly amused. "You've been rather concerned that Melissa is becoming too close to him. Worry no longer. Harmless flirting on Melissa's part, and zero interest on the part of either of them."

"How-"

"Finding a few rather odd excuses to come over to your house and stay for a bit, is he? It's Hayley that young cub Dyer's into, not Melissa. So you can tone down your middle-age-crisis about a younger man poaching your… fiancee? No. Not quite. But you've talked about it recently, haven't you?"

Lestrade clicked his pen and glanced out the window again.

"And it's her who's keen on it, not you. I'm told Melissa's considered a 'good catch'. No doubt she could have her pick of any men her age. The fact that she's declining them left, right, and centre, and trying to coax you into marrying her, says something. Draw your own conclusions about what that might be- and have a talk with Dyer and Hayley. Unless you want to be a grandfather, that is."

Having thrown this Parthian shaft, Sherlock made his way across the office and toward the lifts.


	3. Chapter 3

"Oh, Mel. It didn't happen?"

Dishevelled and flushed as always, Molly had just clattered into the Caffe Grana, where Melissa Brennan was already waiting for her at one of the tables. She dropped her handbag on the floor and sat down in the chair opposite her. "It" was the diamond ring that was most definitely not on the third finger of Melissa's left hand.

"No," Melissa grouched, but she didn't sound truly angry about it. "Bastard. At least I got him to talk about it this time, that's a first."

Molly stared at her friend. While she had sometimes been frustrated with John- even angry with him, sometimes- she had never referred to him as a 'bastard', not even in the privacy of her own head. That Melissa could casually drop a term like that about the man she wanted to marry scandalised her. "Did he say anything… er… worrying?"

"Not really. Exactly as I expected." Melissa lifted her voice to a higher, mocking register. "'Oh, I'm just not ready', 'I've got to consider Julie's feelings, she's the mother of my kids', 'We're already living together, it's just a piece of paper', 'I'll buy you a ring if that's what you actually want', 'I'm a sodding commitment-phobe'- okay, he didn't really say that last bit. It's just depressing, really, how desperate I am. I don't like it- oh, look, um, just the pumpkin soup, thanks, and a skim cappuccino…" this to the waitress who had just wandered over. She wrote down Melissa's order and looked across at Molly, who blurted out the same without glancing at the menu.

"I mean," Melissa continued as the waitress went off with the orders, "I'm sure I don't know why he needs to keep deferring to what Julie wants. She's got her own boyfriend, so I can't see why she'd care about me. And it's not like the kids are little- and I'm being obnoxious and self-centred, aren't I. How are you, anyway? You look slightly lumpy and completely exhausted."

"I'm a bit tired," Molly admitted, tweaking a lock of hair off her forehead. "I'm okay. Nothing terrible."

"You're not telling people what colour clothes to buy for the baby, then? Sneaky."

Molly smiled. "We don't know," she admitted. "I suppose surprises are nice."

"Only if you get the surprise you want…"

"Oh, we don't care," Molly insisted as the waitress brought back their coffee and placed it on the table. Then she stopped and backed up. "Wait. I mean, we don't mind. Just as long as everything's all right."

Melissa tilted her head slightly and looked across at her. "And is everything all right?" she suddenly asked, sipping her coffee.

"With the baby? Oh yes, everything's fine."

"I wasn't entirely talking about the baby, actually."

Embarrassed silence. Molly, staring vaguely off through the front window to the café, stirred her coffee absently for a few seconds. "Mel," she suddenly said, in a rare boost of confidence, "I was wondering. Do you and Greg, um…"

Melissa waited patiently.

"Well, um. How often does… I mean, do you… does Greg… um…"

"Molly," Melissa was making an effort not to smile, "are you trying to tell me that you're being held out on?"

"It's not that," Molly put her hands on her burning cheeks. Melissa smiled a little. She wasn't entirely certain, but she'd always felt that Molly was a closet nymphomaniac, or close to it. Emphasis on the closet part. Poor thing was so repressed that she looked embarrassed when people mentioned her pregnancy.

"It's not that?" she repeated, quietly but with a distinct note of disbelief in her voice. "Wow, you're a much more patient woman than I am, believe me. If I was being held out on, Greg would be looking down the business end of a hissy fit."

"Yes, I…" Molly paused and took a deep breath. She was playing with her coffee again, spooning froth off the cappuccino. "It's not just that. I mean, yes, we haven't… in a while and... I do miss that."

"Is John being good to you?"

Molly looked even more flushed than ever, but this time it was a spark of outrage.

"Now, don't get all offended," Melissa went on calmly. "We're sitting over lunch, and you're trying to tell me that your marriage has just hit a bad patch. I'd be awful not to at least ask it."

"John is always good to me," Molly protested. "No, he would never- not be good to me. But I'm worried about him. He really hasn't been himself for a long time, and he doesn't sleep properly. I think he's depressed."

Melissa raised her eyebrow and took another sip of her coffee. "When you say that, do you mean clinically depressed, or just a bit sad because things haven't been all that great for him recently?"

"I don't know. Maybe both."

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Sorry to bother you, Mrs Hudson. Sherlock's not answering the doorbell. If he's pretending not to be home, he's doing a bad job of it. I can see him sitting in the armchair all the way from the street."

Mrs Hudson had just opened the front door to Baker Street that evening and unexpectedly found that handsome Inspector Lestrade fellow she liked standing on the doorstep. It was past eight, and she was in her dressing gown and slippers. Lestrade, seeing her cringe, couldn't work out if he was amused or felt sorry for her. Or both.

"He, er... yes, come in, Inspector," she blurted out, stepping aside to let him through. As yet, Lestrade was about the only person on earth she had never called dear. Seemed disrespectful, addressing a policeman like that. "Is everything all right?"

Since Sherlock's return, Mrs Hudson never let the police into Baker Street without asking questions first.

"Oh yes, everything's fine. It's about..." Lestrade paused. If he said 'a case', Mrs Hudson might mention it to Harry. Who would definitely mention it to John. And John was not going to like that at all. "Secret men's business," he said instead, a catch-all to keep a prim elderly lady from asking too many questions. Smudge, so-called officially now, was lying stretched-out on the third step down from the flat. He turned his attention to her.

"Hey, puss," he said lightly. "You've been missed. Sort of. We don't want you back or anything. Keeping out of trouble, then?"

"Dreadful mischief, she is. She got into Sherlock's papers the other day, ripped them all up to shreds. Like confetti, it was- all over the living room upstairs. He's afraid to keep the flat door open now." Mrs Hudson was smiling. Lestrade suspected that Smudge had vindicated her on a lot of things Sherlock had done to her property throughout the years.

"I'll bet. I won't be long, Mrs Hudson. By the way, those are lovely earrings you're wearing..."

Mrs Hudson blushed and tugged at one earlobe. "Oh, these? They're old- twenty-first birthday present from my parents."

"That would make them, what, five years old?"

She giggled. "Oh, get along with you!"

Lestrade was probably never going to stop flirting with Mrs Hudson. He left it alone this time and went up to the flat. Sherlock ignored his knock. He opened the door and found Sherlock nowhere near the armchair or the window. He was sitting at the kitchen table, examining what looked like sand under a microscope. He did not acknowledge Lestrade's entrance in any way, shape or form.

"See, that's what I love most about you," Lestrade opened with. He looked across at Sherlock's armchair, finding a frighteningly lifelike dummy version of the man propped up in it. "It's how friendly and hospitable you always are. Makes me feel so very loved."

"You were unhappy when I disturbed you at work yesterday," Sherlock said evenly, without taking his eyes off his slide. "And yet, you're annoyed that I'm not delighted that you've disturbed me at my place of work. Odd, that."

Since his return, Sherlock had at least become better at working out if his friends were annoyed or not. Next up: teaching him why they were annoyed.

"Yeah, well, I still managed to make eye contact. What the hell is this, Sherlock?"

"What's what?"

"Uncanny Valley over here." Lestrade pointed to the dummy. "Sniper-bait? Do I need to stay away from any open spaces?"

"Did it fool you?" Sherlock wanted to know. "I'm not asking for amusement. When you saw it from the street, did you suppose it really was me?"

Lestrade coughed. "Yeah."

"Excellent," Sherlock smiled a little. "Just a little experiment, Inspector. I knew you were coming tonight with news about the Edalji case. I've been exploring various different methods of keeping my personal safety both personal and safe. I'd say most plausible threats to me are of average to sub-average intelligence, and would be fooled by a simple prop, as you were."

"Thanks a lot. Here's your access letter." Lestrade waved the envelope in his hand vaguely and placed it on the table. "They said the stuff isn't to leave their office, but you can have a look at it under supervision. And Mel spoke with staff at Stafford Prison. Edalji is a Cat-C, so we shouldn't have any problems talking to him, provided that he's-"

"Wait, what?" Sherlock broke in sharply. "What did you say?"

"I said, 'He's a Category-C-'"

"No, after that."

"We shouldn't-"

"Okay, stop. We?"

"Well you've got to take somebody along, Sherlock," Lestrade responded. "And if you're not going to take your longsuffering handler, the next best thing would probably be to take someone who knows the police and prison system- and has some modicum of tact."

"I do not need a minder!"

"No, you need a gag, actually. Since those are kind of hard to say anything through, the next best thing you need is somebody to kick you hard when you start your usual routine. I'm not going to be a laughing stock- or worse- if I refer you to Stafford and then you go and get every copper in the constabulary offside." He paused and put his hands in his pockets. "Look," he said, more quietly. "I don't want to keep having to bring it back up, but the last time you tried to interview somebody…"

"You and John were both with me that time," Sherlock had reached out for the envelope and was looking the paperwork over. "Bad example."

"Yeah, but that's what I'm saying, we were with you. For… witnesses. Claudette Bruhl was just one frightened kid, and look at all the trouble that happened. You need someone with you when you talk to Edalji. For all we know, he's a psychopath."

"You think?"

"Well, if he's gone around eviscerating farm animals… I mean, murder makes more sense to me than that. Most people have got reasons for doing that kind of sick thing- money, or jealousy, or something. What the bloody hell would make a person want to rip the guts out of sheep? It's not normal."

"Murdering one's parents for an inheritance is normal?" Sherlock was referring to the recent case of Tyree Jessop. Parricide so open-and-shut he'd barely glanced at the police report.

"Well, no, it's not normal, but at least it makes some kind of sense." Lestrade paused thoughtfully. "Do you think he did it? Edalji, I mean."

"I haven't the faintest idea yet. That's why I'm going up there."

"Why we're going up there. Not sure that you should be let loose unsupervised among a parson's family either, if I'm honest. God knows what you'd say, or get up to." Lestrade sat down in the high-backed armchair that had once been John's, and Sherlock looked up at him for the first time.

"Inspector," he said icily, "sit elsewhere."

"Oh." Lestrade got up. There was no way he was going to tamper with Sherlock's creepy effigy, so he remained standing. "You know, Sherlock," he ventured, "we could take John tomorrow. Pretty sure he's not doing much important just now-"

"Absolutely not," was Sherlock's inexorable response.

"We had fun in Grimpen that time, didn't we?"

"We watched a man step on a live landmine."

"Oh, don't pretend you didn't love it." Lestrade stifled a grin- the Baskerville adventure had been one of the more enjoyable work projects he'd taken on in the last five years. He'd not had any chance to shoot a gun since then; and even though he'd missed at Dewer's Hollow, he still remembered that moment as one where he'd been controlled and stoic- what Matthew would have referred to as a badass. Seldom did he force himself to remember that the second and third shots he'd fired that night had been because his fingers had clamped in cold-sweated terror, and he'd squeezed them off accidentally.

"There's really no response to that remark that you'll accept, is there," Sherlock remarked dourly.

"Not really, no. How does this connect to you not letting John back into your little club, again?"

"John's extremely limited in what he can physically do. It makes no sense to take him. He's not useful to me just now."

"Are you useful to him?"

A short pause. Then Sherlock merely huffed and picked up a nearby book, opening it at what was clearly a totally random page. It was Lestrade's cue that he'd had enough of playing nicely with visitors and needed to be left alone again. "All right," he said, getting up. "I'm off, then. Nine tomorrow morning? I'll pick you up."

Sherlock grunted again without glancing across at Lestrade, who took himself away.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The digital readout on the clock sitting on the bedside table proclaimed it: 1:49am.

Ordinarily, Molly would not have been able to see that readout as she hazed out of sleep. It was on John's side of the bed, and was usually obscured by John himself. John wasn't there now, though the furrow Molly had instinctively rolled into was still warm.

She struggled to focus. A pitiful, hoarse squeak from somewhere in the dark room; Casper had also woken, and decided that he wanted to be let out. He was scratching at the door. Molly rose, crossed the dark room, and opened it for him, watching his ghost-like form slip silently out the door and along the corridor.

She found John down in the kitchen. He hadn't put the light on, and for a second she was startled. He was looking out the window, illuminated only by the street light near the corner and the light shining from a window across the street.

"John?"

He startled a little; then, seeing it was only Molly, he sighed. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't. Everything okay?"

"Yeah- yeah, it's fine," he reassured her. "I'm just a bit... awake, that's all. The couple across the street were just having one hell of a row. Apparently, they were at a party somewhere in Maida Hill and he wouldn't stop flirting with 'some Swedish bitch'. And then it was on. I haven't heard language like that since the army."

"Are they all right?" she went to his side to have a look, but all she could see of the house across the street was the amber light of a shaded lamp and the gauzy dimness of muslin curtains.

"He peeled off in the car a couple of minutes ago. They'll survive, I'm sure."

Her hand fumbled at his side, searching briefly for his. She found it, and gave it a quick squeeze; he leaned in to peck her cheek, but there was something... automatic about it.

There were some things it was easier to say in darkness. A place where you could be close to somebody- perhaps the closest two people could be- and not have to answer to their gaze. "John," she murmured to him. "Are we okay?"

"'Course we are," he said immediately. Too quickly. "Why?"

"You haven't been yourself lately. You've been so sad and quiet, and you... you seem to think a lot... about something that makes you sad. And I just thought maybe… that it was something that we could talk about?"

"Oh, Lolly," he muttered, for the first time in four months. "No, I'm okay. I'm just... frustrated with not being able to do things, that's all. I shouldn't take it out on you. Sorry."

"Are you worried about the appointment on Wednesday?" This was with Hanrahan, who would give a new list of Things John Could and Couldn't Do. This could, depending on his opinion, mean much greater freedom for John- or more restrictions than ever.

"I don't know. Maybe." This was John's way of saying that he was. Even so, Molly had an idea that this wasn't what was keeping him up at two in the morning, and neither was the row between the neighbours across the street.

"Are you angry at me?" she asked him timidly.

He blinked and turned to her, frowning. "Am I angry at you? For what?"

"For lying to you about Sherlock being alive all that time."

He sighed, taking both of Molly's hands in his and giving them a brief squeeze. "Honestly?" he ventured. "Yeah. Sometimes I'm angry about it. Sometimes I'm furious. That's my problem... not yours."

"No," she shook her head. "It's our problem. We... we go through these things together, don't we? When you're happy, it makes me happy. And when you're sad, it makes me sad."

His face suddenly hardened again; she could see it clearly, even in the half-light. He slipped his hands out of hers. "So... you want me to cheer up because it's making you feel bad?" Toby was now brushing against his legs; John picked him up, as if defying Molly to tell him not to. "I'm sorry, Molly. I can't help thinking that's selfish."

"John-"

"Going back to bed now. Goodnight."


	4. Chapter 4

"Okay, Hayley, I'm off, but- hey, pay attention, please."

Lestrade knew it was dangerous to expect Hayley to pay attention when she was absorbed in a book at the breakfast table, but it had to be done. She looked up in dazed good-naturedness. "Hmmm?"

He waved his hand in front of her face. "Are the lights on in there, Hayley? Everyone home?"

_"Dad."_

"Just checking. You know I don't like wasting my breath. Now, I'll probably be home by the time you get home tomorrow. In the meantime, your favourite shopping assistant is to be looked to as your favourite authority figure. Clear?"

A heavy sigh. "Yes," she agreed flatly, putting down her book. "But I'm not a kid, Dad. I doubt she's going to have to resort to sending me to bed without dinner."

"On the off-chance that she does, I don't want to hear reports of any complaints about it... or the next time I have to be off somewhere, you'll have to go off to your Mum's."

This was a new one, and Hayley didn't quite understand it. She was seventeen and a half, and the last time Mel had taken Dad away for the weekend, she'd stayed at home on her own without him wringing his hands over it. She knew that if she didn't agree completely and immediately that Dad was going to stand there and lecture for as long as it took, so she nodded her head. "I'll behave, Dad. Promise."

"You'd better." Lestrade leaned over to give her an awkward peck on the forehead, by way of goodbye. It had only been over the last year or so that he'd begun kissing her goodbye at all, however. Once, three months after she'd come to live with him, he'd tried to shake her hand.

Melissa's farewell in the hallway was quite a different brand of kissing. But even there, practicalities had to eventually be addressed.

"I don't want Dyer here when I'm gone, if you can avoid it," he told her, by way of killing the mood.

Melissa smiled and tweaked at his chin affectionately. "What if I stand over those two the whole time and make sure they're not-? Okay, fine, there's no need to be so grumpy about it." She narrowly avoided reminding him that in seven months' time, Hayley turned eighteen- and could run off and _marry_ Dyer, if she was crazy enough to want to. Hayley could survive for one night without Jake. Probably.

The poor, dear, deluded man. Had it really taken him this long to figure out Hayley and Jake? That had been old news three months ago.

"Call me when you get there," she made him promise at the door; he was halfway down the front steps and turned to look at her in surprise. Call her when he got there? That was the sort of thing he made Hayley do when she took the car out at night.

"Call you...?"

"You know I wouldn't ask if you were travelling with anyone else. You're just as likely to have the world go black and then wake up aboard a pirate vessel or something."

He laughed a little. Melissa had a good idea of Sherlock Holmes and the craziness he trailed along behind him, but even she had no idea how close to the mark that one was.

* * *

He'd bought her flowers.

Molly had come back from her lunch break and found them sitting on the lab bench, positioned so they were the first thing she saw when she opened the door. John rarely bought her flowers, and never, to her memory, for 'just no reason.' Valentine's Day, and her birthday- she'd received blue irises the week before. He knew she loved flowers- and she knew he was not the flower-giving type.

These were pink and cream tulips- twelve of them- not in season yet, and must have cost him a fortune. Professionally arranged and presented. Faintly scented- that sickly sweetness undermined the more bitter tones of alcohol wipes that always pervaded the lab.

Molly knew the language of flowers, and John knew that she knew it. Pink tulips- _I love you._ Cream tulips- _I'm sorry._ Twelve of them? _Completely._

It was the first time in their relationship that John had expected vegetation to say what he couldn't.

She looked at the card, which confirmed it. It was in his handwriting- not the impersonal copperplate of a florist, but a simple and awkward scrawl: _John._ No mention of _Captain_ or _Doctor;_ not even _Watson._ They were "Watson"- but only he was John.

She immediately pulled out her phone and called him, waiting patiently on the line until he picked up on the fifth ring. Furtive greeting. He knew she'd found the flowers.

"Thank you for the flowers," she told him directly. "They're beautiful, I love them. Thank you."

"Um... you're welcome..."

He was incredibly unsure of himself, she knew. Confused as to why she was thanking him for apologising- a further sign that he meant it, and felt awful. She cleared her throat. "I was wondering, John, if you're not busy... would you like to come up to the lab this afternoon? I'm working on my own today, and I'd like to... thank you..."

A short pause; John was clearly trying to work out how she could thank him at the lab when she'd already done so- twice, even- on the phone. Then she heard a little redirection in his breathing as her meaning suddenly dawned on him. They'd talked about doing this before. As a _joke._ Just a cheeky little fantasy... "Are you serious?" he blurted out.

"I'm completely serious."

"The lab? Wouldn't you prefer to come home for that? We might get caught-"

"Would it be so awful if we did?"

Another pause while John was contemplating this. Molly was obliging and open-minded about taking suggestions, but she'd rarely come up with one like this. The novelty alone...

"I'm coming over," he told her decisively. She could hear the lift in his voice, and she giggled by way of agreement. "You'd better have clothes on when I get there, Mrs Watson..."

* * *

"Well, we made it here in one piece, anyway," Lestrade remarked, getting out of the car and shutting the door with a little more energy than was necessary. "No thanks to you."

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock grouched as he did the same. "If you had better nerves while driving, that incident would never have happened at all."

"Yeah, well, if you didn't have a habit of suddenly squealing like a girl when you have a mental revelation, without reason or warning..."

It had not been a long drive, as far as they went; however, it had seemed a lot longer and Lestrade was close to the end of his tether by now. And that was unfortunate, because it was only really the start of the ordeal of the Great Wyrley investigation.

It was shortly past midday. When Lestrade had picked up Sherlock from Baker Street that morning it had been sunny and bright, but rain had drifted in, slowly and surely. By the time they arrived in Jones's Lane, just outside of town, it was coming down in a fine but steady mist. One that didn't appear to be bothering the young PC standing in the field across from where Lestrade parked the car. His raincoat was slick and shining in the white glare.

"Inspector Lestrade?" he called across, just as Lestrade neatly cleared the barbed-wire fence with more casual grace than Sherlock had expected of him. He flashed his badge. Lestrade saved the yelling for when he really meant business.

"Behave, Sherlock," he said through a forced smile without looking across at Sherlock, who was still negotiating the fence and trying to pull a couple of wires out of his coat. "If you're nice to the PC and don't embarrass me, I'll take you to the McDonald's in Walsall for dinner."

"Lestrade, _please_." Sherlock freed his coat and double-stepped a few paces to catch him up.

Lestrade shrugged. "That worked on the kids when they were little. Thought I'd give bribery a go before resorting to threats..." by this time they'd approached the PC. He was little more than a boy; dark-haired, gangly underneath his raincoat, which was far too big for him. His teeth, too, seemed to be far too big for his thin, ferrety little face.

"Afternoon," Lestrade greeted him easily enough. There was no need for posturing- a DI from Scotland Yard was next door to God Himself in these parts. "You are...?"

"PC Heffernan, sir. Daniel Heffernan."

"Well, Daniel Heffernan, this is Sherlock Holmes..." Lestrade watched anxiously as Sherlock took the young PC's hand for a brief but polite shake. Cold, yes, but at least the man wasn't doing anything bizarre or rude yet. "And this, I suppose, is where they found the pony."

"Yes, sir. But I'm afraid you might not see much. It was nearly a month ago that it happened..."

But Sherlock was already on the scent. Lestrade and Heffernan watched- the latter with more wonder- as he paced the length of the field twice, once with his head up, and then with his head down. When he was returning for the second time, and about ten feet away, he stooped among the soaking grass. At first he examined a few blades; poked at the spongy, wet ground. Before long he was grubbing around the mud with his long white fingers.

"What've you found, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked him, trying to ignore how baffled the PC was. Sherlock had just then pulled something out of the ground and was examining it in the palm of his hand. To Lestrade's eyes, it was a bell-shaped lump of mud.

"Know much about gardening, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked him.

Lestrade shrugged."Not really. Not my kind of hobby. What's that?"

"That," Sherlock stood up and showed him, "is a bulb of meadow saffron. You might know it as autumn crocus, Heffernan."

"Okay, so it's a bulb of meadow saffron," Lestrade agreed. "So what?"

"So this field isn't used," Sherlock concluded, "not for pasturing animals, anyhow. This bulb won't flower for months yet, but in any form, meadow saffron is poisonous- no one in their right mind would pasture a pony, or any other animal, in a field of it. Furthermore, I've just walked through every inch of this field and I couldn't see a residence nearby, no matter where I stood. It was particularly hard to do so with the high hedge..."

"Nearest house is a mile down that way, sir," Heffernan pointed.

"So there's no way a person could have witnessed this crime- or have found the pony- incidentally. They'd have to have been walking or driving down this road, not viewing from a window or from another property. And even so they'd have to have found a gap in the hedge. Inference: no witnesses."

"No, sir, none-"

"I'm not talking about the report this time." Sherlock cast the young constable a withering glance. "I meant that the lack of credible witnesses is something our mutilator may have been well aware of when he chose the location for the crime. We're looking for a _calculating_ perpetrator. Who owns this field, Heffernan?"

"Man by the name of McInerny, sir." Lestrade could see that by now, the poor kid had had _quite_ enough of Sherlock Holmes; he was red-faced and starting to falter under the pressure of Sherlock's gaze. "But he lives in Rushall, and he's been cleared- he was in Birmingham the weekend it happened."

"So the pony wasn't his either?"

"No. Belonged to a kid in town- ten year old. Birthday present- only a fortnight before."

"Great," Lestrade commented dourly, but Sherlock brushed this off completely.

"So why was a child's birthday present being pastured in a field full of poisonous weeds- and one owned by a man who lives outside of town?"

"It wasn't," Heffernan told him. "It was found here, but we don't know why. It was being pastured in another field a mile that way-" he pointed north. "Fence wasn't broken. Must have been led into the field, but I'm d- I mean..." he glanced at Lestrade. "I mean, I don't know why someone would do that. None of us do."

Sherlock sighed heavily. "You _could_ have mentioned that earlier," he said, ignoring Lestrade's warning glance. "Once again demonstrating that I really need to see that police report, Lestrade. Second-hand reports of it are only going to be so useful- less so with an unreliable source." He brushed his hands together to shed the mud on his fingers. "Show me where the pony was found."

"Here, sir."

"No, I mean exactly, _precisely_ where."

It was clear from Heffernan's blank look that he had no idea of the exact location. "Do you have a crime-scene photograph, perhaps?" Lestrade prompted gently.

"Case file, sir. I don't have access, I'm afraid."

It was as Sherlock had suspected, and as Lestrade had warned. The wheels of justice were almost stationary in a country town- especially on a Sunday.

* * *

"PC Heffernan would probably be more useful as a conductor of electricity than as an officer," Sherlock growled over his coffee. It was half past six in the evening. Lestrade had eased off on his promise- or threat- of McDonald's, and they were now sitting in the Mary Rose at Cheslyn Hay. Lestrade, remembering that Sherlock didn't eat when he was working, wondered briefly what he'd ever do if he was presented with a case that took him a month to solve.

Maybe that was part of the man's motivation. Lestrade felt sure he'd be pretty keen to wrap up a case if he couldn't get a decent meal until he did. Pity Sherlock was missing the food, anyway- it was excellent stuff. But then, Sherlock was just sulking that the Wyrley officers hadn't allowed him access to the case files that afternoon. It was Sunday. These things did not, apparently, happen on a Sunday. Lestrade had suspected that if Mycroft had been anywhere more accessible than Ghana at the time, the constabulary would have had a call from the government that afternoon.

"Normally, I'd defend the poor kid," he said with his mouth full, just because he knew his table manners, or lack thereof, annoyed Sherlock no end. "But even I thought that was a bit of a pointless venture."

"Not pointless," Sherlock objected. "We learned a great deal. Or at least, _I_ learned a great deal, and you would have too, if you'd been thinking and listening at the same time. We learned that the pony did not belong in the pasture where it was found. We learned that nobody could have had the opportunity to witness the attack unless they had some purpose to be in Jones's lane in the middle of the night. We learned that the pony belonged to a child. All very important things." He sighed. "Lestrade, I've known you for the better part of ten years. If you just _made the effort,_ the Yard could dispense with me, as they seem so anxious to do..."

Lestrade decided to take no offence to that. In his roundabout way, Sherlock had just pointed out that he was clever. Lazy, but clever. He'd take that.

Before he could really launch into the details of Lestrade's intellectual shortcomings, though, Sherlock trailed off as there was a sudden weak _bleep_ from his pocket. He fished his phone out promptly. The message was brief; he read it in half a second, then groaned and shoved the phone back in its place.

Even an apparent lack of mental acumen hadn't stopped Lestrade from making a deduction on this one. Text from John.

"How is he?" he asked, without bothering to elaborate who "he" was.

"Unhappy," was the terse answer. "However, less unhappy than I'd expected, given his... reconciliation to his wife this afternoon..." Sherlock cleared his throat. "Multiple reconciliations, it seems..."

Lestrade chuckled. Good for John. And Sherlock's extreme squeamishness on that particular topic was never going to stop being funny- neither was the fact that Sherlock just _had_ to boast about knowing all about it, however ambivalent he actually felt about it. And, of course, the fact that he could tell the state of a man's sex life _from_ _an entirely unrelated_ _text message._

"Well," Sherlock said eagerly, seeing that Lestrade was finishing up and evidently keen to change the topic. "I think we'd best be off, don't you? I imagine you'll want to get dressed into something else for church."

"... Church?"

"Yes. Shapuriji Edalji is, I presume, presiding over the service at St Mark's at half past six- this is a perfect chance for us to observe the Edalji family in their element. We'd best get moving. I'm told it's considered bad manners to be late for church."


	5. Chapter 5

"When was the last time you were in a church?" Sherlock asked as they walked through the old iron gate and up the path. It was past dark now. Through the rustling, scented poplars, the lights were shining from the old church. Moonlight and electric lights mingled in the quiet graveyard, where four hundred years of tombstones were neatly set out in rows; some glossy and new and standing as straight as young soldiers, others moss-smothered and leaning at a more drunken slant.

"Me? Uh... hmm. When John got married in one." Lestrade had been looking at those tombstones with slight misgivings. At the age of five, his two older sisters had bandied together their hard-earned pocket money and offered him five whole quid if he'd walk through the local churchyard on his own after dark. He'd done it, but it was now nearly fifty years later and he still wasn't sure it'd been worth the money. "You?"

"Southwark Cathedral,' was the terse response. "If that counts. A day or two before..."

Lestrade paused for a second, then kept on walking. His inner five-year-old had just suggested that he might want not want to hang around in the graveyard any longer than he had to. Just, you know, in case. Yes, it was _definitely_ Lorraine and Pam's stupid faults that he was more afraid of ghosts that didn't exist than serial killers who did.

"Now remember," he told Sherlock as they followed the path through the trees, "I'm not a copper, and you're not tactless. Do you think you could remember that for the next hour and a half?"

They'd just come into the clearing, and Sherlock had stopped dead. "That's him," he muttered over his shoulder in a low voice. "Our parson."

Neither of them had known what to expect, knowing nothing for a fact except that Shapuriji Edalji was Indian-born and elderly. The man they saw waiting at the church doors to welcome the worshippers was both. Beyond that, they'd formed no impression of him. Lestrade, though years in the field had taught him above-average powers of observation, saw only a serene, kindly man in a suit and clerical collar. He seemed to know- and know well- every single person he shook hands with on their way in. The church was lit within with an amber light; the music that came from within was a piano, not an organ. The two men held back and watched for a minute or two.

"See how he's touching their hands?" Sherlock murmured to Lestrade. "Everyone who goes in. He knows them by their hands."

Sherlock sounded a little jealous.

"His wife said he was losing his sight." Lestrade was scanning the crowd. "Which one is she, anyway?"

"Never mind about her." Sherlock put his hands in his pockets and joined the queue to be welcomed. As he did so, he cast a smug sort of glance at Lestrade over his shoulder. Shapuriji Edalji may have known every hand of every person in his church, but he didn't know Sherlock Holmes from a bar of soap. Lestrade watched as Sherlock allowed the elderly man to take his hand and press it between his rough, gnarled ones.

"Ah, Mr Holmes," he said placidly. "I was hoping you'd come."

Mumbai accent- but softened by four decades in the West Midlands, so that it was only barely perceptible. Both Sherlock and Lestrade noted it and neither of them cared. Sherlock was staring at the little old man- he barely reached Sherlock's shoulder in height- trying to scan him for all he was worth. The man smiled.

"My wife said you were coming to see us as soon as you were able," he explained. "She said you were tall and that your hands were thin and cool, and that you smelled of cigarette smoke and leather and good soap."

Sherlock coughed. "I didn't suppose your wife would be keen on detailing her visit to me," he said.

"No secrets in our family," was the placid response. The old man was smiling. He still held Sherlock's now-reluctant hand in his; running his fingers over his nails, drawing something in the palm of his hand with one finger. The hand he held was Sherlock's left; Sherlock watched as Edalji did with his hands what he, Sherlock, would do with his eyes. The man's deductions were unspoken, but perfectly clear: _Mid thirties. Doesn't work with his hands. Appearance-conscious; properly manicured nails, not bitten. Small mole on the back of the middle finger. Fine hairs. No ring on the third finger and no indentation indicating one recently removed, so unmarried, or at least, not married recently. Absence of calluses at pressure points on the third finger and thumb indicating right-handed. Calluses on the tips of the fingers. Touch-typist, and frequently._

"You have brought someone with you?" was Edalji's next remark. Lestrade had moved closer; perhaps he'd been able to smell the second stranger to him. He let go of Sherlock's hand and took, fumbling slightly, the one Lestrade offered to him. This one was a mere handshake. Lestrade was not a puzzle to him, and introduced himself by name and rank. This _did_ surprise Edalji. "Did Caroline get the police in London interested, after all?"

"Not exactly," Lestrade told him. "She got Sherlock Holmes interested. We have a... professional relationship..." Sherlock glanced at him for a moment. "But the Yard aren't yet involved in this."

Edalji shrugged. "Well, we must take what God gives us. Come in, gentlemen. Sit wherever you like."

Lestrade had imagined that St Marks would be one of two things- deserted or packed. He remembered that, as a kid, there'd never been much of a turnout at his local Church of England- until it was rumoured that the verger had been dipping his hands into the collection plate. Nothing ever came of the accusations, but the congregation doubled. It happened. Car-wreck syndrome. It was going to be that either people hated the Edaljis more than ever, or everyone wanted to come and see that parson whose son was, it seemed, a raging lunatic.

Apparently, the dislike already held for the Edaljis hadn't helped the church's case, just as it hadn't helped George's. There was about fifteen worshippers besides Sherlock and himself; he followed Sherlock down the main aisle and slipped into the pew about halfway down, arm's length from the consulting detective.

Sherlock was, for his part, taking this seriously. There was nothing contemptuous about the way he slipped into the pew or handled his hymn book. They watched quietly as everyone made their last-minute preparations for the service. "Well that's one thing handy," Lestrade muttered to him. "Not much of a stretch to guess which ones are the Edalji kids."

Sherlock could probably have picked them even if they hadn't been significantly darker than most of their counterparts- though there was a young man in the pew behind them who was Sudanese, after all- but it helped to have the lazy visual shorthand. The Edalji children all appeared to be in their twenties. Both Sherlock and Lestrade listened carefully as they spoke between themselves, and to their parents, and to others. The boys were _Mal_ and _Jo;_ their sister was Ruth. _Ruthie._ And, of course, there was definitely another sister out there somewhere.

"Rift there," Lestrade remarked quietly. "Did you see how the boys are blanking each other?"

"Not quite," Sherlock had apparently already noted it. "I see one pointedly ignoring the other, who's pretending that it's all a joke... you think it isn't?"

The genius who was Sherlock Holmes knew a lot about human nature, but every now and again he still had to defer to the opinion of someone who practiced normal social customs.

"Nope," Lestrade said immediately. "Definitely not a joke. The one on the steps..." by this he meant the one who clearly was the younger of the two, dressed in a plain white shirt and black trousers. He seemed the quieter and more serious brother, though that could have been due to his being in a bad mood. "He just shot the other one a look I _usually_ see about three seconds before some idiot punches another one out."

"And then?" Sherlock asked him. Lestrade frowned.

"Then...?"

"What happened after-?" Sherlock huffed. "Dear God, do you not pay attention to _anything_ , Lestrade? You missed the most important part."

Lestrade had been quite confident in himself just then; he'd made an observation that Sherlock had validated. But he had no idea what the man was talking about _now_ , and was annoyed. Why'd he have to be so cryptic all the time? That wasn't going to solve a crime any faster. He was just being an annoying show-off.

There was no use in talking to Sherlock about it now- the service was about to begin, and he wasn't paying any attention anyway. He was still watching the small group toward the front of the church. And it was then that Lestrade noticed that there was another girl who seemed near to them, too- colourless little thing, pretty in a boring kind of way. Modestly, though not puritanically dressed. No makeup. Hair the colour of dust.

This, no doubt, was the cousin Sherlock had mentioned on the way up. Hannah Stoneham.

~~tPs~~

The Edalji children sat in the front pews, along with Caroline, who hadn't seemed to notice Sherlock yet. The daughter, Ruth, took her father's hand and helped him up to the pulpit, and Lestrade saw Sherlock cock his head slightly with interest. It was not until later that night that Sherlock spelled it out: Shapuriji Edalji knew every furrow of every pair of hands in his congregation. But he did not know how many steps led to the pulpit he had used every Sunday for thirty-two years.

Well, that could mean anything. Or nothing.

The service began; Sherlock politely mumbled over his hymn book and sat down when bidden to do so, much to Lestrade's surprise. The man really could focus and behave when he wanted to, apparently.

That didn't mean he had to concentrate, and Lestrade couldn't blame him either. The sermon was entirely boring- something about the garden of Gethsemane. Apparently, Jesus had had trouble keeping his disciples awake that night. Odd, that. Lestrade was just pondering whether it would be absolutely unforgivable for him to sneak a glance at his watch when it happened.

Sherlock stood up and neatly threw his wallet into the aisle.

All heads turned, and even the blind preacher looked up. There was a dead silence as Sherlock shuffled his way into the aisle, apologising and blushing abjectly, and retrieved his wallet and several coins that had bounced and then rolled across the floor. By that time Lestrade had joined him; once Sherlock had collected his coins they went out through to the soundproof creche.

"What the bl- I mean, what was that about?" Lestrade snapped as soon as the door had shut behind them. Lestrade knew better than to swear in a church- or the creche of a church. A fusty, cluttered little room, reeking of damp carpet. They were both standing amid discarded Lego blocks and Matchbox cars.

Sherlock put his hands in his pockets, in that obnoxiously self-satisfied way he'd always had. "Just checking something," he said smugly.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Checking what?"

"Come on, Lestrade. Did you notice anything this time?"

Lestrade stared him down. He was in no mood to play guessing games that he was sure to lose. Sherlock sighed in exasperation.

"I was checking to see where he'd look," he said. "I stood up abruptly and then threw my wallet to where it hit the floor- and you'll note that it was some feet away."

"So you were checking," Lestrade said slowly as the idea gained a hold, "whether he'd look at _you_ , or at the place the wallet landed. Whether he's blind or... but... why would he be pretending?"

"Mrs Edalji told me the poison-pen letters shifted focus when her husband started to lose his sight. Odd timing, don't you think? I had to check, first, that the man really is blind before I could continue on any hypothesis in that area."

"So he's really blind?"

"To my satisfaction."

By this time the congregation were at prayer again; the service was ending at last. There was tea and biscuits in the adjoining church hall after; Sherlock wanted to observe more of the Edalji children and dragged Lestrade along. Caroline Edalji, seeing them as they came in, separated herself from the two elderly women she'd been speaking to and made a beeline for them.

"He's really blind, you know," was her opener to Sherlock.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"My husband's really blind. Oh, yes, of course, he sees shadows and things and up close, he can make people's outlines out in strong light. But for all intents and purposes, he can't see at all. If you wanted to know that, you could have _asked_ him."

"I've found that people don't always tell me the truth, Mrs Edalji."

"You're not the first person who's devised a gag to "test" him," she was still bristling with indignation. She was so short and sleek, and Sherlock was so lanky, that Lestrade thought for a moment that she looked like a hen scolding a fox. "Though I suppose I should be grateful you only chose to disrupt one of his sermons. The last person who wanted to check if he really was blind slapped him."

"I'm not in the habit of slapping my clients, Mrs Edalji. Though several have tempted me." Sherlock made a brief gesture toward Hannah, who was standing some feet away talking to the Edalji brothers. "Is that the niece you spoke to me about at Baker Street?"

Caroline shot the girl a quick glance. "Yes, that's Hannah," she said. "Dare I ask how you knew?"

"She's young, female and clearly not your husband's close relative," Sherlock pointed out, his smile reaching his eyes before it reached his mouth. "In a congregation of this size, it was a very easy deduction to make. But your eldest son is married?"

Mrs Edalji eagerly took the bait. "My eldest son is George," she said stiffly. "And no, George is _not_ married."

"That sounded rather emphatic," Sherlock commented. "Is he gay?"

"Why? Are you?"

Lestrade hid a smirk in his cup of tea.

"My sexuality has nothing to do with this case, but your son's may," Sherlock responded haughtily. "And I can assure you, that's the _only_ reason I'm asking."

Caroline sighed. "No, he's not gay," she told him in longsuffering tones. "I don't think any of that sort of thing has ever crossed George's mind in his entire life. He's more interested in trains than in women- or men, for that matter."

Lestrade, pretending to brush something off Sherlock's jacket, flicked him hard before he could then ask if George was a simpleton.

"Thank you. I'm beginning to get more of an idea of your son's character- provided that what you've told me is true. And in any case, I wasn't referring to George, but to..." Sherlock gestured vaguely at the little group of young people. Again, Caroline rushed heedlessly in to tell him the exact information he wanted.

"Mal. Malachi," she told him. Malachi seemed to be the older of the two brothers. The one who had ignored his brother's spurning him. Just then, the one they called _Jo_ had found Ruth and they were discussing something near the fire door across the hall. Malachi seemed to be the topic of conversation between them; Lestrade saw Ruth glance across to him twice as they spoke together.

"And Malachi?" Sherlock persisted.

"Yes, he's married. Just on two years now. But Rebecca doesn't come to church."

Sherlock raised his eyebrow. "That's an awkward position for a parson's daughter-in-law to have," he commented. "Does your husband mind?"

"Why should he?"

"I do note, Mrs Edalji, that you tend to answer questions with more questions," Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "No doubt you find it satisfying to verbally dodge me like that, but we're no closer to helping George. I presume that's what you actually care about?"

"Perhaps," Lestrade broke in before this could escalate into a pitched battle, "perhaps if we were able to speak privately with your husband about a couple of things? I know it's getting late..." it was now on nine... "but we're due back in London tomorrow, and may not have time to see you again before then-"

This time Lestrade had to stop himself. _See you._ God, that was awkward. Good luck that the old man hadn't overheard that one.

~~tPs~~

Shapuriji Edalji met Sherlock and Lestrade back in the relative privacy of the main church building, now filled with nothing but moonlight and shadows. Again, Lestrade made the mental blunder of wondering why he didn't turn some lights on.

"Nice church," he remarked, looking up at the open-beamed ceiling. The old man smiled, reaching out carefully to put one hand on the lectern for support.

"Yes, it is," he said proudly. "Well, it was. It could be painted green with pink polka dots all over by now, for all I know." He paused. "How can I help you, Inspector?"

Lestrade repeated what he'd told Caroline- they were due back home in London late the next day, and a full-length interview may no be possible on their time constraints. "But I do have to ask a few things," he said finally. "And I'm sorry if this first question offends you, but it's my job to ask awkward questions."

"And it's mine to forgive any awkwardness."

"I'm glad to hear it. Do you think there's any possibility that George actually did... what he was accused of?"

"None," Edalji said immediately.

Lestrade shuffled a little. Down in the shadows beyond, Sherlock was slinking almost silently along the north wall, examining the stonework and sills of the high stained-glass windows. Edalji had shown no signs that he knew Sherlock was there, and Lestrade thought for a second and then decided he wouldn't point it out.

"Do you have any... anything you can tell us or show us that you haven't already been through?" he asked the old man next. Edalji sighed and smiled again, but this smiled looked a little weary.

"Inspector Lestrade, my wife and I spent thousands on George's trial," he said. "The best legal help we could get. Investigated as much as we could on our own. But they found him guilty, and sentenced him to twelve months. If there was anything else I could have said then that would have helped, I'd have done so."

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Right. Yes. Of course," he mumbled. "Of course, that's only... natural. Which brings me to my next question. Do you have any idea who _would_ do a thing like that? Surely it must have occurred to you that whoever did it might have been trying to frame George."

Edalji shrugged. "George has no enemies that any of us know of. He's a good boy, Inspector. He has been a lot of help to me over the past few years. I can't imagine why anyone would want him in prison."

Lestrade couldn't imagine it, either. Sherlock might have been able to imagine it, but if so, he didn't say anything. Once he'd finished examining various other things along the length of the church, he was happy for them to finally leave for the hotel; beyond a handshake and a muttered farewell, the great consulting detective said nothing more to the old parson that night.


	6. Chapter 6

Even an afternoon of what Sherlock would have referred to as "multiple reconciliations" was never going to make everything magically all right again, and Molly knew it. It had been fun. They'd both enjoyed it- and John had more like his old self that evening than he'd been in weeks. But some tulips and a few fireable offences in the specimen closet at Barts weren't going to touch the deep places that were no doubt still hurting.

John was a little more complex than that.

He'd fallen asleep beside her easily enough that night- more easily than she had. She'd watched the shadows flittering across the ceiling for some time, comforted by the gentle, rhythmic sound of him snuffling in his sleep beside her. Now and again his breath caught and he twitched a little, but he never woke.

It was dark when she surfaced again; John's side of the bed was now empty. This time there was a light down in the kitchen, where she could faintly hear John muttering away to himself. She knew he "muttered things out" to himself when he was stressed, but never before in sustained sentences like that. He was on the phone.

She glanced at the clock. 2:04am. Getting up, she wrapped her kimono around herself and padded out onto the landing in her bare feet. At the top of the stairs, she paused.

"I know," John was saying. Tones she'd heard before, and at a similar hour- Harry was holding onto the wagon by her fingertips. "Harry, if you want me to come out right now I will, okay? Don't act like a dog thrown out in the rain about it. All I'm saying is that you're capable of doing this on your own- yes, you are, you've done it before. Use a bit of willpower. Hold up."

She padded quietly down the staircase wondering, and not for the first or last time, why John spoke to Harry in that tone of voice when she called him in "that state". Didn't she turn to the bottle when she felt bad about herself? John turned when she reached the foot of the stairs, giving her an apologetic look. She went over to the kettle and filled it as John paced around.

"Oh, Harry, no," he pleaded. "Come _on_. Don't be so unfair. That was twenty years ago. You can't- fine. I'm coming around okay? Give me half an hour... twenty minutes. I'm sure you can hold on that long."

This was how it always went. Molly knew this routine off by heart by now. Harry would call John, drunk or about to be, at some obscene hour; and she could hardly be faulted for that, since John had told her to do it. He'd talk to her- sometimes for hours. Usually, he'd conclude she needed a hand in person and go out to her.

Once or twice over the late winter, Molly had suggested that Harry move in with them. John had put his foot down in a way he very rarely did with her. Harry was absolutely _not_ moving in with them- not unless it was a choice between that or the streets. She ran the pair of them ragged as it was without doing it on an hourly, in-house basis. And of course, it would be a logistical nightmare. The spare bedroom had recently been cleared out and they were planning a nursery, so there was nowhere for Harry to sleep even if she _did_ move in. John wasn't having his sister couch-surfing.

"Okay, listen," he said into the phone, meeting Molly's gaze and giving a wry, can-you-believe-it look for a second. Then he glanced away again. "Harry, shut up and listen. I'm on my way over. Half an hour... yes. Yes... no, just stay where you are until I get there and sort it out, okay?" Another long pause while John listened. "Okay. I'll be there soon. Love you. Bye."

"Everything okay?" Molly murmured as John hung up the phone. He sighed heavily.

"I'm sorry," he said, kissing her cheek. Things weren't okay, so he'd neatly dodged the question. "It's one of those nights again."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

John had already said _no_ to this suggestion approximately eighteen times and counting. But she was determined to keep asking it anyway. "No," he said wearily. "Thank you for offering. I'll call you in the morning- let you know what's happening."

Molly had never been able to fathom John's consistent logic- that Harry was upset and it was better if he went alone. If Harry was upset, it seemed to her that she would be even _more_ useful going with John to help. But she couldn't force it. Not after the trouble she'd had drawing John this close to her- that kind of thing would only have him on the retreat again. He kissed her goodbye- proper kiss this time, on the mouth- mumbled a habitual _I love you,_ and left.

The kettle hit boiling point and flicked itself off; she ignored it and went back upstairs. The tea had been for him, not herself.

_~~~~~~~~_

Back in the bedroom, though, she wasn't desperate to get back into bed and go back to sleep. Something was troubling her.

_Love you._

Molly, who saw the good in everyone she met, had never had much doubt that John loved his sister. He did. He just... had difficulty showing it. They were just as bad as one another and it wasn't just the drinking. There was history there. John had touched on it once or twice, but he hated talking about it even with Molly, so she'd never pressed the issue for long. It wasn't just a personality clash. Clara and the drinking had made it worse, not created it. It was something to do with their parents.

Molly knew that the only reason John would rush out to Harry in the middle of the night was because he loved her. But as far as she was aware, he had never, not once, ever _told_ her he loved her. Not even when she'd visited him in the hospital and he'd been slightly loopy from all the painkillers. Never.

Well, maybe... maybe he was just warming toward her, then. He tolerated Harry a lot better these days, because he knew Molly liked her. He was sometimes even friendly to her, without that underlying _I-don't-approve-of-you_ bitchiness. And of course, she had no idea what John was like with Harry during these overnight episodes. But she kept calling him to come back, so...

_Love you._

No. That was _wrong_. It was so wrong that Molly stood in the darkness for the best part of half a minute, honestly trying to establish whether those two words had been her imagination or not. Finally, she turned back in the darkness to the doorway, groping along the wall for a few seconds before she found the switch and flicked the light on. Squinting in the sudden flood of overhead light, she made her way across to John's side of the bed, sitting down. Then she eased the middle drawer of his bedside table open.

It was the fifth time she'd done this since John had been released from hospital. Twice after a doctor's appointment didn't go as swimmingly as hoped; once before when he'd rushed off to Harry in the middle of the night. She'd checked it just that morning, when John had still been asleep, after those bitter words in the dark. Untouched and in order, all four times. She shoved aside her guilt. She wasn't doing this for fun.

The drawer opened easily- too easily, she felt. She moved it out gingerly until the light overhead reached the further recesses of each corner and revealed the contents.

Molly suddenly felt sick.

He _could_ have been going for his passport or something- but why his passport? And anyhow, that was tucked neatly in the back right-hand corner of the drawer. On it, neatly arranged in John's fastidious way, were his old military ID tags and the Conspicuous Gallantry Cross he still felt ashamed of and never spoke about.

Those hadn't been touched in months. She was certain.

But John's service pistol had been flipped, and was turned forty-five degrees from when she'd last checked it that morning.

* * *

It rained hard overnight in the Midlands. Sherlock, who rarely slept well (if at all) during a case, woke twice and found it lashing down both times. But by morning the rain was spent. The grass and pavements, glowing orange in the early sunshine, were still glistening with droplets. But the sky was blue, with only scattered, fluffy white clouds ahead that rushed from one end of the sky to the other.

"Excuse me. Can I walk with you?"

Hannah Stoneham had just left her flat in Cheslyn Hay to walk the short distance to the bus shelter at the end of the street. Sherlock knew from the handbag she'd chosen that she was going to work, and that her workplace was at least fifteen miles away. Some sort of clerical position- words, not numbers. Nicely dressed- knee-length skirt, open lace stockings. Hair pulled up in a bun. She wore makeup to work.

Hannah didn't know yet that Sherlock Holmes did not smile, say 'excuse me' and offer to walk a lady to a bus shelter. Not unless he wanted something- and not the kind of thing most men his age wanted.

"If you want," she said warily, slowing down slightly and half-turning toward him. It was the first time he'd heard her voice clearly. She sounded very young, though Sherlock knew she was twenty-four. "It's a free country."

Sherlock had spent much of his restless night researching Hannah Stoneham. He now felt he had a fairly good idea of her, and what she could and couldn't be useful for with regards to the case. Everyone had their pressure points, of course, that point where they could be "convinced" to be useful. Hannah had plenty of these. "You don't remember me, do you," he informed her.

"Yes, of course I do," she retorted immediately, and Sherlock's interest was piqued again. _She didn't like that remark at all._ "You were in church last night."

"Yes." Sherlock kicked a pebble at his feet- a coy, boyish gesture that had worked well for him in the past.

"You dropped your wallet in the aisle," was her next remark. Nope. Sherlock's preliminary charm-routine wasn't working on Hannah Stoneham. "Or rather, you threw it there. Why?"

 _That_ was interesting. Hannah hadn't spoken with her aunt since before church last night- or at least, hadn't spoken to her long enough to hear her indignation about the wallet stunt, which was surely at the forefront of Caroline Edalji's mind. And that gave Sherlock an unexpected advantage.

"Well, um..." he gave her a wry, shame-faced grin that generally worked when the down-on-his-luck kick didn't. "I'm a bit embarrassed to tell you, actually. Your poor aunt seems to think I was playing a horrible trick on your uncle. I didn't even think of that. I..." he exhaled. "I feel like a bit of an idiot telling you this, but I was trying to get you to look at me."

She frowned, confused. "Me?" she repeated.

"Yeah." Sherlock turned up the longing, eager-puppy look another notch. It really was a pity that John wasn't around to see _this_ performance. He'd once had the gall to suggest that Sherlock had never had a girlfriend- or a boyfriend- because he had no idea how to _get_ one.

* * *

Lestrade had been asleep in the room across the hall when Sherlock had left the hotel that morning. By the time he returned, he found him up, showered, and mostly dressed. "Stop doing that," was his greeting as Sherlock came into the room. He was putting on his jacket.

"Stop doing what?" Sherlock honestly wanted to know.

"Opening people's bedroom doors without knocking." Lestrade straightened his collar and looked up at him properly for the first time. "Looks like you've been on the scent this morning. What are you looking so pleased about?"

"You know how I once told you that dating was an idiotic social custom for the feeble-minded?"

"Yeah." Good times between Sherlock and Melissa, that one. Mel bore Sherlock no malice, but she was hard to get one around, and while everyone else tended to smile and nod when Sherlock went off on intellectual tangents, she didn't. This declaration, made one night at the Lestrade household, had resulted in a four-hour "discussion" between the two on social anthropology. Mel had won. Sherlock still wouldn't admit it.

"I have a date on Saturday night," was Sherlock's next astonishing statement.

No hint of sarcasm. In fact, Sherlock looked rather upbeat and pleased with himself.

"Really?" Lestrade blurted out. "Who-"

"Hannah Stoneham."

"Sherlock Holmes, you are a _complete bastard_."

Sherlock was obviously lost in thought by this time; it took him a couple of seconds to register what Lestrade had just said. "... Sorry?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "I suppose that after you give her the third degree and clear our man's name you'll drop her like a hot potato. You can't just do that to people, you know. Anyway, doesn't she have a boyfriend?"

"Yes, as it happens." Sherlock flopped down on the made bed, disregarding his muddy shoes on the clean coverlet. "Ryan Sharpe. I don't know much about him yet, except that he's in York for his work over the next three days. Convenient. Given that she's agreed to go for a drink with me, I don't think the relationship is happy."

"Yeah, and I think it might be even _less_ happy if he finds out you've been out with his missus and takes it badly." Lestrade was now hunting around for his phone, eventually locating it where it had fallen from the bedside table. "I'm serious, Sherlock. Be careful."

"I'm confident that I can handle myself against some country upstart," Sherlock preened.

"It's not you I'm particularly worried about," Lestrade said. "You might be confident enough to think you could lay out some kid-"

"I was caught off _guard_." Sherlock instinctively touched the left side of his jaw for a second. Not all of his teeth were strictly his own anymore.

"Take it easy, I'm not talking about that. If this Ryan Sharpe is the Neanderthal type I know far too well, he might not go for you- he's more likely to go for _her_."

"In which case I shall leave his fate to you and to the great laws of this country."

There was a silence, and Sherlock looked up to find Lestrade staring blankly at him. He wasn't interested in exploring why he'd suddenly earned Lestrade's exasperation- again- but he noted that, judging from the sudden wiping gesture he made against his forehead as he turned away, Lestrade was thinking about Hayley and Jacob Dyer.

"I'm going to pretend you never said that," he said finally. "So why Hannah? I'd have thought that Ruth Edalji would be a more useful victim for you. She'd know George better- or at least you'd think she would."

"Another thing you didn't see at church," Sherlock said with contempt. "The Edalji siblings revolved around Hannah last night, and Ruth wasn't far behind. She rules their little kingdom, make no mistake. You'll remember you saw the younger Edalji boy glare at his brother."

"Yes."

"And I told you that you'd missed the most important part of all that."

"Yeah, you did. Thanks. Do you want to go ahead and explain it all for me now?"

"You commented then that you expected, given the look on his face, that Jo was about to punch his brother. I agree. But you missed _why he didn't._ It was because of Hannah. One glance from her, and it was over."

Lestrade blinked. "Bloody hell. You're not saying-?"

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes. "No, I'm _not_ saying," he got up and put his feet on the floor, holding his head in his hands for a second in exasperation. "You and John are just as ridiculous as each other sometimes. I'm talking about complex human interactions and relationships- and all _you're_ trying to figure out is who's sleeping with whom!"

Lestrade paused. "Well," he said, "you've got to admit it's interesting."

"I can think of hundreds of topics more interesting than which idiot is giving in to his or her biological urges." Sherlock was inexorable. He'd never understood this eternal obsession everyone else seemed to have with sex. It made crimes very boring to unravel (if they needed any unraveling at all), and these days it was making both Lestrade and John smug and annoying.

"Okay," Lestrade shrugged, and Sherlock wondered if Lestrade knew how much he hated that dismissive humouring, and whether he did it on purpose. "In the meantime, did you want to get going? I told the Stafford constabulary we'd be there dead on nine. Unless," he teased, "you're now so busy mooning about over sweet Hannah Stoneham that you've forgotten you've got a case on."

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock growled. "I don't want to hear any more of your stupid joking about the subject. As for whether I'm ready, I've been up and ready for the past three hours."


	7. Chapter 7

"Mr Holmes."

George Edalji looked nothing like his photograph. The portrait that Sherlock had managed to convince the police into emailing to him- public record, after all, unlike the police report- had shown a serious-faced young man with dark hair greying already, though he was only thirty-one years old. Skin-tone slightly dusky, as befit his paternal heritage. A pair of startlingly prominent brown eyes. The face in the photograph had been plump and filled-out, with a wide-based chin and a soft-lipped, expressive, almost feminine mouth.

The man who was shown into the interview room at Stafford Prison bore most of these traits, but only as a sort of tribute to them. His skin was duller than the photograph; those plump cheeks were now all but hollowed out. But above them, his eyes were even more prominent than ever; as he fumbled for the chair and sat down, Sherlock reflected that the man reminded him of some strange insect. He shook hands with him. George Edalji was not considered a violent risk; there were officers posted at the door, so he hadn't been cuffed.

"Mr Edalji," Sherlock acknowledged stiffly. "This is Detective Inspector Lestrade..." he paused as Lestrade greeted the man. "Won't keep you long, we're due back in London this evening. We need to talk about how you feel about ponies."

Edalji stiffened. "I didn't do that, Mr Holmes." His voice was softer than his photographs suggested, and a register higher. "I wouldn't do that. That's disgusting."

"Agreed on all three accounts," Sherlock said placidly. "You wouldn't do that, did not, in fact, do that, and it's quite disgusting. But my personal opinion has never been a good reason to reopen a case or reorder a trial, so we're going to have to do a bit better than that."

At the mention of the reordering of a trial, Edalji's eyes had lit up briefly, and he stopped slouching a little. Sherlock cleared his throat. "Why are you called George?" he suddenly asked.

George looked at him blankly.

"Just wondering," Sherlock followed up briskly. "You see, when parents have multiple children they tend to give names according to internal logic. Thus, you might get families where every name starts with the same letter, or ends with the same syllable, or has the same number of syllables and the same metre. And with your family, it seems your parents have taken a Biblical approach to naming their children. What's Jo short for? Josiah?"

"Jonah," George muttered.

"Ah, Jonah. So we have Malachi and Jonah and Ruth and... George. I don't remember any Georges in the Bible."

At this, George simply looked even more confused.

"You have no ancestors named George?" Sherlock prompted him briskly. "Maternal grandfather, perhaps?"

"No. My maternal grandfather was Nathaniel. Mr Holmes, why are you asking? I don't know why I'm called George. I've never asked."

"Never mind, I'll ask elsewhere," Sherlock suddenly dropped the subject and picked up a new one just as abruptly. "So George, if I may call you George, I've just been reading the police report of what happened that night," he said. The Stafford police hadn't allowed him to remove the police report or make copies of it; that hadn't mattered much. Ten minutes, and Sherlock knew it word-for-word. "What were you doing in Jones's Lane in the middle of the night on the thirtieth of March?"

Edalji looked at him in disbelief. "I wasn't," he protested. "I told the police- I told everybody at the trial. I was never there that night, or any other night-"

"A man named Dennis James and his wife were returning home from her parent's house in Bloxwich at around midnight that night. Driving up the lane, they saw saw you- or rather, Dennis did. Caught you in the beam of the car's headlights. Said you were carrying a large blade- one that was later found in the ditch outside the field, wiped clean of prints. Anne James was, it seems, most inconveniently asleep in the passenger seat at the time. How did Dennis James see you if you were never there?"

"He didn't see me. I wasn't there."

"Report says your shoes were seized from the house the following morning," Lestrade broke in before this could degenerate into a squabble. "They were soaking wet and covered in mud. Are there no footpaths in your street? Because we were there yesterday, and I noticed that there aren't any in that lane. Anyone off on a stroll down there would get his shoes in a bit of a state. Especially in the dark. Dennis said you didn't have a torch of any kind. Blunder into a few puddles, did you?"

Edalji swallowed and said nothing.

"And when you were asked why your shoes were so dirty, you reacted like that," Lestrade continued. Sherlock half-turned to him. It had been a long time since he'd sat in on a proper interview with Lestrade. He'd almost forgotten how confident he was in the interviewer's chair. "Legally speaking, silence is not an indication of guilt. But I'll give you a hint. It doesn't look good, George."

"But what can I do?" George implored. His tones had suddenly become childlike. "I didn't do anything, Inspector. I was in bed asleep that night. I can't tell anyone any more than that. I don't know how my shoes got that muddy. It had been raining the day before. I must have stepped in a puddle somewhere else... or something... you ask my father where I was that night. He said-"

"That you were at home in bed asleep all night," Lestrade finished for him, shaking his head. "George, do you know where my daughter was at 2am last Thursday morning?"

"No..."

"Neither do I. Not a bloody clue. In theory, she was in bed asleep all night. And if the police came knocking on my door and charged her with a serious crime, that's what I'd tell them, and I wouldn't be lying, exactly. But I'd be testifying to a fact I had no way of knowing. And your Dad doesn't know everything his kids get up to in the middle of the night, either."

There was a short silence. Sherlock was looking at George's twitchy hands, curled up in one another.

"George, tell me about your sister. I don't mean Ruth," Sherlock was picking his words carefully. This was something important; he couldn't afford to get George offside with it. "I mean... is her name Sarah? Or is it Grace?"

"Sarah," George faltered. "Did my mother-"

"Your mother tried to pretend she didn't exist, George, which is suggestive in itself." Sherlock leaned back in his chair, pleased that he'd been able to narrow down the girl's name by process of deduction. "She doesn't live in Great Wyrley anymore?"

"No."

"Where is she now?"

George shrugged. He was looking down at his hands. "Don't know," he muttered. "London somewhere."

"How long ago did she leave, and why?"

"January. She had a disagreement with my mother. They've never gotten along."

"What was the disgreement about?"

George Edalji looked across the table at Sherlock. For a few seconds, he gave the consulting detective the same stony, immovable look his mother had when she'd visited 221B earlier that week. That the same expression could come out of two wildly different faces was striking.

"I don't know," he said finally. "Why don't you ask my mother?"

~~~~~~~

"We need to find Sarah Edalji," Sherlock told Lestrade as he slammed the car door in with more force than was necessary. "As soon as possible."

"That's going to be fun," Lestrade remarked as he started up the engine. "She's not a minor, she hasn't been reported missing, she's not wanted in relation to a crime, and she may well not even be using her own identity. She won't be easy to find." He paused, concentrating as he turned the car onto the main road. Sherlock was silent; he was staring absently out the window.

"What are you thinking, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stirred. "Lestrade, if there was a rift between you and Hayley-"

"Don't even start."

"No, it's a serious question, Lestrade. What kind of a row could you have with Hayley where she'd end up on the other side of England, and you didn't know or care where she was?"

"No kind of row," Lestrade responded promptly. "But Hayley's a kid, and Sarah Edalji is twenty, and there's a big difference there. Sarah wasn't kicked out, exactly. Maybe she wanted to leave."

"An event or situation where a girl of that age would want to leave her large and seemingly happy family? That's also suggestive. And you're not really answering my question."

Lestrade sighed. "I told you. I don't think I'd ever have Hayley out of the house and not care where she was. But I can tell you the big issues with kids who're off and never seen again, and you know them all yourself. Mental illness, petty crime, drugs, alcohol, a dickhead boyfriend, behaviour the family considers to be sexually immoral, or a pregnancy or abortion the parents didn't approve of."

"Since we know almost nothing about Sarah, that puts us at a disadvantage," Sherlock leaned back in his seat and half-shut his eyes, like a sleepy cat. "And we're not likely to get any help from her parents, either."

"Maybe Hannah knows? Do you think you could convince her to talk?"

"Oh, I imagine so," Sherlock sounded dismissive. "Getting her to tell me useful things will be the challenge. I want copies of those poison pen letters, Lestrade. I have a feeling they mention more than the Edaljis would like about their home life."

There was a short silence; both men were thinking hard. At length, Lestrade spoke up again.

"Sherlock, at the risk of being dim again, I don't get it," he said. "What's Sarah got to do with George ripping up livestock in the dead of night? She'd left town by then."

"No, she left town after the mutilations started. It wasn't just the one offence, remember?" Sherlock steepled his fingers and put them to his lips. "It's rather obvious George is innocent. He doesn't have the wits, upper body strength or sociopathy necessary for a crime like that. All we need to do is form a convincing case for his innocence-"

"And there's no more convincing a case than finding who actually did it?"

"Exactly. We need to find Sarah, Lestrade."

"I'll put people onto it when we're back in London. We might find her in eighteen months."

* * *

 

Someone was in the flat.

Sherlock, arriving home after dark and coming in the street-side door, knew it instantly. He prided himself on being able to tell these things. Mrs Hudson's televison was on; she was in her own flat, but there was another human presence in 221B. Quiet, unobtrusive... but there.

He started up the stairs softly. On the first landing, he stopped and sniffed. Jasmine.

He knew exactly who that was.

The living room door was open- Sherlock rarely shut it, except on very cold nights and, recently, whenever he thought Smudge would be likely to go on a destructive rampage and urinate in his shoes. Smudge was in the flat; she was sitting on Molly Watson's lap, purring contentedly. Molly, in turn, was nestled in the old patched armchair. Sherlock paused in the doorway in confusion.

"I'm sorry to scare you," she said softly, putting Smudge gently on the floor and standing up. "Mrs Hudson said it was all right for me to just come up and wait for you."

Sherlock made no response to her- no verbal response. Molly, following his gaze, looked down at herself.

"Um," she tweaked at the hem of her shirt self-consciously. "Yes, I know, you can see it now. But you don't need to stare."

He blinked and looked back up at her face. "I wasn't staring," he protested.

"You were staring." Tones neutral. Unaccusing. Sherlock, realising that he'd been staring, she knew it, and there was little likelihood of his arguing his way out of it, decided to let it go. For now.

"How long have you been waiting for me?" He slipped off his scarf and hung it on the hook behind the living room door.

"I don't know. Half an hour, I think."

Sherlock was now unburdening himself of his coat. He made care to invert the collar and brushed some non-existent dust off it before hanging it up behind the door beside his scarf. "How can I help you?" he muttered over his shoulder.

During John's stint in hospital, Molly had faithfully kept Sherlock updated on his condition and the likely prognoses from various different specialists. There had been daily phone calls. Multiple ones, often. But those had dried up as John's condition had improved and he'd been able to make those calls for himself. Sherlock had neither seen nor spoken to Molly Watson since John had been discharged more than two months before.

He was pretty sure she still hated him.

"I have something I need to show you." Her words were very soft, even for her. Sherlock turned to her; saw her pallor, the dilation of her pupils, the hesitation of her hands. He gestured for her to sit down again.

"Well, you have my attention." He cleared his throat.

It was wrapped in a flannel, but Sherlock instantly recognised that which Molly drew out of her handbag and put on the tea stand. He went over to it and drew back the swathes of cloth to confirm it. The Browning, and not a trick or a replica either. Sherlock knew John's gun when he saw it. Fully loaded. Safety on.

"Why do you have this?" he asked her in a low voice.

"I need you to tell me how recently this was fired."

"Why do you have this?"

She looked up at him immovably for a few seconds. Finally, he huffed and picked it up, turning his back on her and examining it for a minute or two in silence.

"Cleaned yesterday," he finally announced. "Or perhaps early this morning. Unloaded and reloaded... yes, twice. That said, this hasn't been fired in a long time. A year, perhaps. Now if you'll be so kind, why do you have this?"

"He bought me flowers..." Molly's words were choked, and muffled by her hands. "Yesterday..."

"Oh, I rather think he did more than buy you flowers."

"That's got nothing to do with... oh, you're not even listening!" she burst out. "Sherlock, he bought me flowers for no reason. He never does that. He says they were to apologise for- well, it wasn't even an argument- but he usually just says sorry for things like that. And then he moved the gun. And then he told Harry that he loved her... and you're making those mean jokes again when I need your help..."

Sherlock looked at her in silence for a few moments.

"Molly," he said, almost gently, "guns need to be regularly checked and cleaned, or else they become dangerous. John took good care of this pistol when we were living here. I see no evidence to suggest that he was doing anything other than his usual safety maintenance, and while the timing is admittedly alarming..."

He trailed off, knowing it was a lost cause. The woman was very close to tears now, and he started wondering what he'd do if she did start crying.

"Sherlock, this can't go on," she told him. "I can't do this. He can't do this. This isn't normal. Take him on this case with you."

"No."

She flinched and gave a little gasp, as if he'd slapped her across the face. "Take him on the case, Sherlock," she repeated with more urgency. "Please. It doesn't seem like it's a very dangerous case this time, is it? John says you're trying to prove a man innocent of mutilating animals, not tracking down a serial killer or something-"

"That's entirely beside the point," Sherlock told her stonily. "I'm not taking John on a case out of pity- I expect those I work with to work, not stand on the sidelines so that they can feel better about themselves. John is not-"

"Oh, but he is useful," she insisted. "Yes, he may be... a little restricted with what he can do just now... but that might change soon. The doctor might think he's all right to..." she trailed off. "Please give him a chance. He's smart, Sherlock. He's really smart. He didn't just... well... he did some of the thinking when you were solving crimes together, didn't he?"

Sherlock paused, reflecting on this. Well. John had been admittedly quite helpful for that case in Grimpen. He was an accurate and reliable recorder of information. Got around witnesses quite well. Gave a good interview. Lied extremely badly, but had an excellent poker face...

"And I think... maybe... you're smart enough to see how this would help him, too," Molly was saying in a little voice. "Help all of us. I want my husband back, Sherlock. You want your best friend back. I know you do."

For a few seconds, there was silence so profound that both could hear the clock on the mantelpiece ticking away.

"I know what all this is about," Molly's tones were more gentle now. "You're afraid to take him in case he gets hurt again."

"I-"

"Last Christmas..." she faltered. "It was just so horrible. It was horrible for all of us. But really, is it going to happen again?"

"I'd say if one takes up a sideline career in pursuing dangerous criminals, that takes the likelihood of it happening again up by rather a lot," Sherlock remarked. "And working with Sherlock Holmes seems an excellent way to get a price on one's head."

"Maybe," she conceded calmly. "But Sherlock... that's... well, it's who John is. I knew that when I married him. You know it, too. So... maybe it's also worth that risk, for us to get John back?"

Sherlock suddenly kicked hard at the first thing available to him- the coffee table. It shuddered and then tipped over with a violent crash, and Molly drew back into her chair, alarmed.

"Molly, you told me to stay away from you," he snarled at her. "And I stayed away. You told me I'd ruined everything, and taken away everything you cared about. I never intend to make that mistake again. You told me you'd never forgive me for it. I accepted that. And now you've appeared in my living room at nine o'clock at night with a loaded gun in your hand, telling me that you take it all back, and you want me to take your husband on a case that might well get him shot again. Now in deference to your help several years ago, I'm prepared to consider what you want. But I am exhausted with trying to work out what the hell that is!"

They looked at each other for a few seconds. Then Sherlock glanced down and exhaled, as if he were about to speak. Before he could do so Molly got up, a little unsteadily, and reached down for her bag at her feet.

"I- I'm going home now," she said faintly.

Sherlock wrapped the gun carefully back up in its flannel cloth and put it in her hands. "Take this with you," he muttered in different tones, without really looking at her. "Before he notices it's gone."

Gingerly, she tucked the gun in her handbag, between her wallet and phone. Then she hoisted it on her shoulder, taking a few steps toward the door. Sherlock, meanwhile, had thrown himself into his own chair and tucked one foot under sulkily.

"Molly."

She turned in the doorway to face him, but did not speak.

"I will continue to work in John's best interests," he said in low tones. "Will that do?"

"I don't know, Sherlock."

Then she shut the door gently behind her.


	8. Chapter 8

"Greg, wake up..."

Melissa's tones were sleep-dense; if that hadn't been enough to wake the man lying beside her, she'd also leaned across and gently tapped him on the forehead with the phone receiver. Lestrade stirred and very reluctantly opened his eyes.

"What's the time?" He stifled a yawn and half-sat up.

"Too early." She still held the receiver out to him, giving it a vague little wave. "It's not work. Your male spawn would like to speak with you."

Lestrade glanced at the bedside alarm clock- 6:37am.

He groaned slightly and took the receiver. Trust Matthew to call so early- a bit like Sherlock in that respect. He didn't much care about appropriate times of day to call people, and didn't take heed of anyone else's schedule. Lestrade had long since stopped bothering to try to correct Matthew out of it.

"What's happening, mate?" He smothered another yawn. "Is your Mum okay?"

Behind his back, Melissa made a face.

"She's okay," was the immediate response- in a voice that Lestrade was having difficulty recognising these days. Matthew sounded so much older this spring- it was like talking to a fully grown man sometimes, though he was still fifteen. "I need to ask about the novel again, Dad."

It had taken him some time to notice amid the winter's drama, but Matthew, always a kid of many talents, had now decided to turn to detective fiction. He'd planned an entire series around some famous detective with some ridiculous name that Lestrade could never remember properly, and had been pestering his father and various acquaintances for weeks for help with "research". "How can I help?" Lestrade asked him, trying to sound patient.

"Could a man stab someone to death with a serated steak knife?"

Well, that certainly wasn't the weirdest thing Matthew had come up with yet. Lestrade knew he'd already asked Melissa if a psychopath would be likely to keep a dog, and he'd asked Molly how long a blood sample exposed to the elements was "good" for, and he'd asked John how long a person could live for if they'd had their liver pulled out and shown to them.

This crime novel of his was probably going to be a pretty good read.

"Yeah, I guess so," Lestrade responded lazily. "Depends on how strong your killer is- and where he stabs the victim. Not the kind of weapon you'd choose, though, if you had something else on hand, so unless your murderer suddenly went crazy in a fit of passion and the serated steak knife was the sharpest thing he or she could get their hands on, I'd rethink it." Lestrade spoke casually, but he was ill at ease. He was, essentially, giving his own son a 101 on how to commit a murder.

"When you say 'where he stabs them...'"

"Probably not the person to ask, if I'm honest. I only investigate after they've been put in the ground- or at least put in the morgue. The Watsons might be able to help you with that. But yeah. Plausible. Unless your killer is ninety, or six, or in the middle of dying or something."

There was a vague pause on the line. Lestrade knew- could practically hear- that Matthew was writing all this down diligently, and probably writing it all word-for-word. "Okay, thanks. Are you and Melissa still coming to the play?"

"The what-? Oh." _Shit. I'd completely forgotten about that._ "When's it on again?"

Plays were really not Greg Lestrade's thing. They really were Matthew Lestrade's thing, however, and so Lestrade was suffering for his son's art. This one was sure to be excruciating. Some Shakespeary thing that he wouldn't be able to understand a word of. If Matthew was playing Third Random Medieval Git On the Left, it might have been something he could worm his way out of. Apparently, the kid had an important role.

"Friday night. Seven. You _will_ be there, won't you?"

Lestrade had always been a hard worker. And because of that, he had missed baby milestones; he'd missed play groups and pediatric appointments and football games and ballet classes and awards ceremonies. And Melissa was now looking at him as he listened. _Yes,_ she mouthed. _Don't you dare._

"Yes," he said enthusiastically. "Yeah, we'll be there."

"You won't be at work again?"

Lestrade felt a pang of guilt. Over the years, he'd promised Matthew a lot of things, only to have been dragged to work at the last minute. His sixth birthday party... high school orientation night... he'd almost missed it when the kid had been _born._ "Mate, I will make sure every single criminal in London kindly desists in any slaughtering rampages while this play is going on."

Before he could then not-so-subtly ask how _long_ this play was going to take, the doorbell downstairs rang. "Hang on, someone's here." He got up and started looking around for something he felt comfortable answering the door wearing. "Might be work now. I'll talk to you later, Matty, okay?"

"Okay."

Lestrade hung up and put the receiver down, threw some clothes on, and clattered down the staircase just as the doorbell rang again- a longer and more petulant sound than before.

There would be no prizes for guessing who was at the door. Despite the hour, Sherlock was as alert as he'd ever be; clean and neat, too. Lestrade had more than once wondered when he slept and showered. He seemed to shed off dirt and grime like a corgi.

"It's early," was Lestrade's opening remark as Sherlock strode past him into the house.

"I've got people out looking for Sarah Edalji," he said, as if Lestrade hadn't spoken. "Hospitals, women's shelters- all the usual places. That's if we can believe George that she's even in London. He may be lying. Or mistaken. Or she could have since left London for elsewhere by now-"

Lestrade put his palms to his eyes for a second and took a deep breath. God granted him patience. "Sherlock, why are you here so bloody early?"

"They wouldn't let me into office without you," was the straightfaced response.

 _Dammit._ Most of the Met were used to seeing Sherlock's tweed-draped, lanky form in the foyer or on the fourth floor office, but the last thing Lestrade needed was for the man to be hovering there out-of-hours and making himself... conspicuous. "Oh, gee. I wonder why," he said.

"It so happens that they really _should_ have let me in, given what happened last night," Sherlock said loftily, shoving his hands into his pockets and leaning his weight on his heels.

It was a blatant lead-in. Lestrade, under usual circumstances, could and did ignore these bids for attention, but this time he mentally concluded that it might be quicker and easier to just feed Sherlock's ego and ask. He sighed. "Why, what happened last night?"

"Shapuriji Edalji has reported Sarah missing."

"Why?"

"Presumably, because she's missing."

"Don't be a smart-arse, Sherlock, I'm really not in the mood for it." Lestrade shut the door behind him. "The girl's been 'missing' since January and nobody's bothered to report it until now. Her own mother couldn't care less."

"I don't believe that for a second."

Lestrade didn't entirely believe it either. Ever since they'd left Stafford Prison and Sherlock had asked him what he'd do if Hayley were in that situation, he mentally pictured Sarah Edalji as his daughter. And while the relationship between Julie and Hayley was still fraught and had never entirely recovered from that spat years before, Lestrade knew that Julie was not _that_ much of a cold-hearted bitch. He'd often entertained that opinion, but realistically, she'd never suffer Hayley to go missing and not care where she was.

"Okay," he said, "But still, her parents have never bothered to report her missing as yet. Why's her father suddenly all concerned about her? And _where_ was it reported?"

"It was reported directly to the Met. I imagine it would be a waste of time alerting the police in Stafford that a girl's gone missing in London." Sherlock cleared his throat. "And as for the catalyst, I may have had a hand in convincing him that it was worth while making that report."

_"Sherlock."_

"I'll credit him; he didn't seem at all annoyed when I rang him after I'd come home last night. We had quite the civilised conversation. Of course, it was remarkable how much he agreed to when his wife wasn't in earshot. I suspected from the moment I saw her that Caroline was the controlling type."

"Yeah, I kind of got that impression myself. Did he say anything else about Sarah, other than he wanted her found?"

"That's the most interesting thing of all, Lestrade..." Sherlock had opened the fridge door and was hovering over the contents indecisively. "I don't entirely think he _wants_ her found- ah, Melissa."

Melissa had just blundered into the kitchen in her slippers and wrap. Lestrade felt a sudden strange pang that he didn't entirely like. He had never known Sherlock to be the slightest bit interested in sex- men or women- but he still wished that Melissa would put more clothes on in front of him. Or at least wear a bra. The Consulting Monk was (presumably) a human being and (apparently) not dead, either. Some story John had half-told him, something about dealings they'd had with this dominatrix...

No. He was being paranoid.

Besides, being greeted by a _naked dominatrix?_ Yeah, that probably happened in John's _dreams._ Lestrade had always taken it for granted that a lot of the contents of John's blog had been highly exaggerated or just plain made up to make things sound more interesting than they had been. But then, he'd been around for some of the Baskerville stuff, and John's write-up was, if anything, kind of flat. _Then we shot it and saw that it was just a dog._ Not quite what had happened...

"How's the Yoga injury coming along?" Sherlock was asking Melissa.

"I don't have a Yoga injury, Sherlock," she told him with a hint of smugness. She ran her hand through her hair, letting it drop back into place and then turning to the all-important kettle. The last thing anybody needed was a sparring match between Sherlock and Melissa when the latter was uncaffeinated.

Sherlock glanced at Lestrade for half a second. "Oh, yes, of course," he agreed blandly.

"Okay," Lestrade sighed. "Give me fifteen minutes, Sherlock. Do you think you two could not kill each other between now and then?"

* * *

"Right then. Welcome to your first case back with the Yard, Mr. Sherlock Holmes." Lestrade pushed a pile of stapled pages across his desk toward him, followed by a ballpoint pen. "Sign that."

It was still before eight; although the squad technically worked on an around-the-clock basis, there were few detectives around at that hour unless there was a current major investigation underway. But there hadn't been such a case in weeks. The only people around were the cleaners- making a racket with the hoover out in the hall- and DC Dyer. He had been dumped with an excess of reports to process, partly because he was the new kid in town and partly because he was probably sleeping with his direct superior's daughter. Lestrade had taken a great deal of pleasure in grunting "'Morning, Dyer," at him as he'd stalked past, Sherlock in tow, and otherwise ignoring him.

"What's this?" Sherlock asked warily, casting a glance at the ruffled papers in front of him. He did not pick up the pen.

"It's your contract, Sunshine."

"My... my _what?"_

"Sorry, Sherlock. Orders from on high." Lestrade had enough dislike for "On High" to sound genuinely apologetic. "You want work on this case, you work for us. You do not go off on your own, you do not commit any crimes in the course of the investigation, you do not make any witnesses cry, you do not withhold evidence-"

"I get the idea," Sherlock cut him off acidly. "Why am I signing a contract?"

Lestrade shrugged innocently. "I had no hand in writing this personally, so you can blame Mycroft for the contents. It's what he negotiated with Dawson a month ago. I'm not even supposed to let you up here without you signing this thing, so could you not be a pain and just co-operate?"

Sherlock was hesitating over the fine print. He was silent for a few seconds; finally he put the papers down. "It says here that I'm subcontracted," he remarked.

"Yes."

"And that means I am officially under your authority. One of your employees."

"Yes."

_"No."_

"Fine." Lestrade shrugged and held his hand out as if to accept the unsigned contract back. "Don't sign it, then. Nobody's twisting your arm."

Sherlock, predictably, bristled and held himself a little more upright in his seat. "You need me," he pointed out.

"You'd be helpful- I won't lie. But we _have_ found missing persons on our own in the past, Sherlock. And do keep in mind that you might have a Homeless Network, but I have authority to go through bank transactions, enquire in places usually governed by privacy laws, arrest people..."

"I'm a consulting detective, Lestrade. I'm not one of your constables!"

"Section 6E." Lestrade sighed, leaning across the desk to point it out. "See? Says right there: professional title of Consulting Detective. Mycroft no doubt knew you'd insist on it. Just sign it, will you?"

Sherlock looked at Lestrade for a few seconds. The man was immovable. With a huff, he picked up the pen.


	9. Chapter 9

"All right. You're young, you're female, you're sheltered, and you've been cast out from your family- for some reason. And now, you're in London. Where do you go, Lestrade?"

They were sitting in the Lowlander on Drury while Lestrade sucked in his third cup of coffee that morning. Sherlock existed almost entirely on coffee when he was working, but he seemed less interested in his own cup and more in the street outside. He watched crowds instinctively, even if there was no logical reason to be wary of them. Isolation had never been a problem for him. Crowds were interesting- and sometimes menacing.

"I've got Donovan and Patel out searching women's shelters," Lestrade told him. "No point in a pair of blokes heading off into that territory. They wouldn't tell us much, and I wouldn't really blame them. We're pulling bank records now and checking up at the hospitals."

"Nothing, I suppose?"

"Oh, give it time, Sherlock. Contrary to every cop show I've ever seen, there is no such thing as a computer system that finds advanced records and matches them up in five seconds flat. Human brains have got to process this stuff, too."

"Forgive me for being slightly nervous about that, Lestrade, given the intellectual limitations of those on your team."

Sherlock, as socially inept as he was, saw Lestrade stiffen at this. Lestrade was at minor odds with most of his team most of the time, but he didn't enjoy hearing any of them run into the ground, even if the remarks were true. "Sherlock, might I remind you that you are _on my team now?"_

"Oh, for God's sake. That contract isn't worth the paper it's written on," Sherlock scowled. "And you know it."

Lestrade wasn't prepared to debate the finer points of the legality of Sherlock's contract."I'm just saying, a bit of cooperation and consolidarity wouldn't kill you. Anyway, I notice you're not talking much about what's going on on your end of things. Your wonderful little Homeless Network aren't working hard for their bribes today?"

"Shut up, they're out there looking," Sherlock grumbled. "But no, there's been no word. A few false leads."

"Like I said, this could take eighteen months. This is not one of them- those..." seeing Sherlock's disapproving glance. Lestrade's grammar wasn't always instinctive; on rare occasions he used "them" instead of "those", and "seen" instead of "saw", and "me" instead of "I."

"This is not a crime show," he went on. "We're not going to wrap this up in an hour... excuse me..." he trailed off as his phone rang. Sherlock waited as he picked it up and listened briefly on the line, then thanked the caller and hung up.

"Well?"

"Well. Bank transactions are non-existent after the tenth of January," he announced. "No transactions previous to that were made in London."

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. "That's interesting," he said. "So you're young, female, sheltered, cast out, in London and completely broke-"

"Sherlock, don't be dense," Lestrade groaned. "You know that nine out of ten 'bank account hasn't been touched' cases end up with us finding a rotting corpse in the river."

* * *

"Well then, how are we feeling, John?"

John had previously thought his disdain was reserved for Ella because she was... Ella. The past few months had shown him that it wasn't just her. He resented anyone whose job description was to 'help' him. And Hanrahan was fast becoming the person he resented the most of all.

"I'm feeling well, Chris," he responded pointedly, though his eyes were wandering over various things in Hanrahan's office- certifications on the wall, plastic skeleton in the corner, muscle and nerve charts, and test-tubes and beakers with nothing in them, just for that extra doctor-y pretentious feel to the place. Hanrahan was not a friend of his- he'd gleaned his first name from one of those framed boasting certificates. But was damned if he was going to refer to Hanrahan as "doctor" if the man wasn't prepared to give him the same respect. "Wouldn't have a clue how _you_ are."

Hanrahan smiled slightly, and it wasn't merely out of professional politeness. The more attitude John had, the better he was generally feeling. "Since you ask, quite chipper."

John noted he was tweaking a pen in his hand. His stomach flipped. He'd worked with Sherlock for long enough to know these things- people developed hand fixations when they were nervous. He suddenly wished he had Molly beside him. She'd offered, of course. Hadn't pushed the point when he'd politely declined, but all the same she'd made sure John knew she was sitting in the waiting room reading a magazine.

"When can I go back to work?" John caught himself instinctively tapping on the arm of the chair with one finger. Hand fixation, indeed.

"You know the answer to that, John. Six months."

"Six months from now, or six months from the time it happened?"

"You also know the answer to that." Hanrahan had adopted those annoying you-poor-sod tones of sympathy John hated. It _had_ originally been six months since his release from hospital. Following last month's not-progressing-as-well-as-expected appointment, Hanrahan had tacked on three months more.

John cleared his throat twice and glanced out the window. The day was overcast and bleak-looking; across the road was a concrete office-building where he could see a number of office workers at their desks. He wasn't sure what kind of work they were doing. Sherlock would know at a glance. "But I've not had another setback...?"

"No."

John swallowed hard.

"And if you can go six months without contracting anything serious and you're otherwise in good health and spirits, I'll sign those papers approving you to go back to work for a maximum of twenty hours a week," Hanrahan continued. "I know you're bored. I know you're keen to jump back in as much as you can. But you were _shot,_ John. And one hell of a trajectory that bullet took, too. It's going to take a long time for you to fully recover your immune system as well, and working in a hospital-"

"This six-months thing seems counterintuitive," John protested. "How are we meant to know whether a lack of any serious illness is my immune system picking back up, or sheer luck? I think it'd be more logical to wait until I _do_ get sick, and see whether I drop dead or not."

"Blood work came back clear," Hanrahan ignored him.

"Of course it did. I feel fine."

"And you have a spleen the size of a bottle cap, and you're lucky to have that at all. All things considered, I'm impressed at how fine you apparently are." He was shifting through some paperwork on his desk. "On the other hand, though, your lung capacity results weren't the greatest."

This flicked on John's raw nerves like a personal insult. "I'm out of shape," he protested. "Because I'm not allowed to _do_ anything."

"Observed," Hanrahan looked over the relevant report for a minute in silence; then he sighed and leaned back in his chair, viewing John (or so John felt) like an interesting specimen on a slide. Not every day did he see a patient who had been shot _twice,_ several years apart. He was playing with his pen again.

"Give me something, Chris."

The earnestness of the request even tripped up the man who had said it. John had gone into Hanrahan's office determined not to whine, not to beg, not to plead, and he was suddenly flooded by a sense of shame.

"You can start easing back into moderate activity, John." Hanrahan put his pen down. "I can give you a written definition of what I mean, but I'm sure you have more common sense than that. No marathons. And unless you're intending to juggle cars or something, you can start to _carefully_ increase weightbearing. Be sensible. You know better than most people that the human body doesn't like being taken from zero to overtaxed in one go. You pull that scar adhesion the wrong way and you'll end up in hospital again..." John put his face in his hands for a brief second, and Hanrahan paused again.

"How're you sleeping, John?" he suddenly asked him.

"Fine," John snapped.

"Fine?"

John gave him a withering look.

""You know I can't make you see me, let alone anyone else. I've told you before, you can refuse medical help at any point. I would have thought that you, a doctor of all people, would know that. The question is, do you want to risk it?"

"Evidently not, since I'm sitting here listening to you."

"Well, I'm not the only doctor in the world you might benefit from paying a visit to. I'm not going to approve you returning to work unless you pass a _mental_ health evaluation too, John. Think that over, will you?"

* * *

Lestrade knew where he was going, even if Sherlock didn't. He led the way on foot down Wellington Street, purposeful and confident, turning in at a little doorway between two cafes. The door was shut, and he knocked on it. After a second and more impatient knock, the door opened a crack. The security chain was still in place.

"Yes?" A hesitant voice spoke from the dimness within.

"Eddie, hi. Let me in."

Lestrade had barely got his badge out of his pocket; didn't need to. It was clear to Sherlock that he knew this place well, and was known. Eddie clinked the security chain, opening the door wider and ushering the two men inside without any further word. They found themselves being led through a musty hall back into a little back room, cluttered with old-fashioned filing cabinets. More papers were strewn about, and the two windows at the rear had been boarded, so that the room was now lit only by sickly, flickering fluorescent lights. Before Eddie had closed the door behind them, Sherlock had taken note of every single thing in that room. Beyond the cabinets and papers, there wasn't much to speak of- flimsy little desk, flimsy little secretary behind it.

_No computer. Pens and paper. Rotary phone. This place is like stepping back thirty or forty years._

Eddie- a tall, angular, tow-headed man- was now burrowing around through those papers, trying to clear enough space for the two visitors to sit down."Sorry about all this, Greg, I wasn't expecting-"

"I'm on duty, Eddie."

"DI Lestrade," he corrected himself smoothly, without skipping a beat. "What can I do for you today?"

"Hopefully, quite a lot- no, it's okay, we'll stand." Lestrade was fishing around in his coat pocket for his phone. "By the way, this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is Eddie Morris."

Sherlock, grateful that Lestrade didn't work in any digs about his being an employee of the Yard, shook hands with the man briefly. _Married-two, no, three children- took the Tube to work today- right handed- plays golf-_

"Case, is it, Inspector?"

"Yeah, well, you know I'm never here for fun. Looking for someone..." Lestrade was still flipping through his phone. When he reached the photograph he wanted, he held it out to the man. "Her name's Sarah Edalji, but we both know she's probably not using that name. She's twenty, and apparently she's been in town since January, but she's not using her bank account. Have you seen her? Is she on your books?"

Eddie peered at the photograph for a few seconds. "No..." he murmured finally, though he sounded indecisive. "No, I'm pretty sure I've never seen this one before. Laura..." he walked over to the secretary and held the phone out to her. "You never seen this girl come in?"

Sherlock flinched, as if the man's sentence constructs caused him actual physical pain. Laura, for her part, shook her head in a way Sherlock mentally designated as _bovine._ "Nope," she said decisively. "Never."

"Sorry, Inspector." Eddie handed the phone back to him. "No idea. What's she done?"

"She hasn't done anything," Lestrade put his phone back in his pocket and led the way back down that dank hallway. "Missing person, family are worried about her. Keep an eye out for her, okay? You know my number."

"Yep, sure. Anything else I can do-?"

"Thanks, Eddie." Lestrade was pushing open the street door by this time.

* * *

 

"Right, well, that was a bit of a waste of time," Lestrade commented as they headed left down Bow Street. "Still, it goes to show what she's _not_ doing. There are a couple of other so-called agencies that I-"

"You're on the take."

There was no censure in Sherlock's words. Only a sense of wonder. For all that he had bent and broken rules regarding working with him in the past, Sherlock knew Greg Lestrade to be one of the most clean, honourable officers on the force. It was part of why he worked with him.

Lestrade sighed. "I'm not on the _take,"_ he objected. "You didn't see money exchange hands, did you?"

"You're ignoring what's quite clearly an illegal little operation going on in there."

"And you feed the heroin habits of other people's children," Lestrade retorted. "Anyway, if that's your definition of corruption then I'm not the only one. Eddie Morris runs a so-called "employment agency" that handles money in cash. We all know he does it. Thing is, people who don't want to be found have got to live on something, right? So they're likely to take a cash-in-hand job, and Eddie sets them up and takes his share."

"And the police allow this."

"We monitor and moderate him. Eddie's more useful to us in attracting missing persons and those we're looking for in relation to actual _serious_ crimes for us to go after him for a few tax offences."

"That's if he's not human trafficking."

"He's not. He's hardly a saint, but I don't think he'd stoop to that kind of thing. He's in it for money, not to make other people suffer. Besides, he's too dumb to go in for any human trafficking. We do check these things, Sherlock. Anyway, we'd best get a move on. Got a few brothels and strip clubs I need to enquire at- shut up."

As Lestrade picked up his pace, Sherlock's phone blooped out a text alert. Keeping up and trying to navigate the crowd around him via some kind of personal sonar, he pulled it out. Text from Molly Hooper. All these months later, and Sherlock hadn't gotten around to changing her surname in his address book.

"Lestrade," he said vaguely, trying to read Molly's message and not bump into anyone at the same time. "While this is a diverting way to spend the day, perhaps all the trawling through the Red Light district may have to be put on hold. We need to go back to Great Wyrley as soon as possible."

"I was hoping you weren't going to say that," Lestrade said over his shoulder. They'd reached the corner, and he turned around and held his hand out to hail a cab. "Why, anything happened?"

"Not in the way that you think. But we need to talk to the family again. We simply don't have enough details to work on. Missing girl in London? An emailed photograph of her? We need more. If she's even _in_ London."

"Can't you do that over the phone?" Lestrade tried. "You've already called once."

"Yes, and it was a flat failure. I can't work properly when I can't see the person I'm talking to, Lestrade..." this as they got into the cab that had just pulled up to the kerb.

"A flat failure? The father reported Sarah missing on the strength of that call."

"Yes. He reported her missing _in London."_

Lestrade paused, as if the implications of this were only just crossing his mind. "You said that you didn't think the father really wanted Sarah found," he said slowly. "But he reported her missing anyway... down here..."

"Which is a fine way of obscuring an investigation if she was _never in London in the first place._ Whose word do we have on that? The father's and George's. Given that one is in the business of pedaling fairy tales and the other is in prison for mutilating animals, I don't imagine we should take what either of them say as the whole truth of the matter."

"Okay," Lestrade shrugged. "So what makes you think they're going to start telling the truth if we make a second trip up there?"

"I've had a text from Molly. It's fairly clear that the whole family have been put offside with the arrival of law enforcement. Few people are inclined to open up if they feel like they're being interrogated. But they might have a nice little chat with an affable doctor."

* * *

 _Well, okay. This is the rest of my life,_ John thought with a sort of passive resignation.

It was just after nine o'clock in the evening. Neither he nor Molly could be bothered cooking that evening, so they'd eaten out of plastic containers on the sofa. _Silent Witness_ was on, and it was apparently the only thing on worth watching. Molly was curled up in a blanket beside him, her head resting on his shoulder; he had one arm around her and the other was scratching Toby, sprawled out on his lap, behind the ears. Casper was sitting in the window-seat, blinking his sleepy yellow eyes.

Well, this wasn't... _bad._ No, it was kind of nice, actually. He and Molly hadn't had a night in of just sitting around watching TV together for a long time. It was cosy and comfortable, and shattered abruptly when the doorbell rang twice, and then someone thumped hard on the front door.

They looked at each other.

"I take it you're not expecting anyone?" John asked, removing Toby from his lap and standing up. Molly, struggling to disentangle her legs from the blanket, gave him the sort of bewildered not-that-I-know-of look that few could possibly fake. With a shrug, John went to the door and yanked it open- it had a habit of sticking.

"It turns out that you're needed," Sherlock launched into without preliminary, edging past him into the hall.

John turned quizzically to Lestrade, who was standing on the doorstep. "What are you two doing here? We're about to turn in-"

"Well _you're_ not, because you're coming with us right now... oh, don't give me that ridiculous blank stare of yours, just hurry _up."_

"But- what? Where are we going? Do I have time to pack anything?"

"No. I'm not going to sit through the tiresome business of you deciding what to take. And as for where we're going, you know where we're going, don't ask stupid questions." Sherlock handed a piece of paper to Molly. "Here's the details of where we'll be staying, Molly, you can pack up and send his things up later. Get _moving_ , John!"

John looked across at Molly, as if to ask her permission. She had her hand over her mouth, but her smile was obvious from her eyes. "If you don't hurry up, they're going to go without you," she laughed. "It's okay. I owe Mrs Hudson a visit."

Three minutes later, John found himself in Lestrade's car, bound for Great Wyrley with only his wallet, phone and keys on hand. On nothing more than the whim of Sherlock Holmes, he'd joined the case of the parson's errant son and missing daughter.


	10. Chapter 10

"Those'll kill you, you know."

Lestrade had turned in immediately after reaching the motel at Cannock; he was all-in from his early awakening, the day's investigations, and then three hours in a car with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was predictably restless, and John had come out to the motel courtyard at two in the morning to find him smoking on the steps.

"Unlikely," was his terse response.

John shrugged. "Yeah, well, I suppose you do have a point. After... all that... I wouldn't be surprised if you were immortal." He paused, looking at him in silence. The great Sherlock Holmes. Angular, pallid, huddled on a step in his tweed coat and sucking on a cigarette. It was a few seconds before Sherlock looked up and met his gaze.

"What?" he asked mildly.

John shook his head. "Nothing," he said. "It's... just... nothing. I missed you, Sherlock."

_Two years ago, I'd have emptied hell to be able to nag you about your smoking at two in the morning again._

"I know." Sherlock took a drag of his cigarette, staring off into space for a few seconds; then he heaved a sigh. "I missed you, too," he ventured reluctantly.

"Good to hear. I won't lie and say I haven't wondered, sometimes."

When Sherlock made no response to this, John sighed and sat down on the step above him. "I'm not stupid, you know," he said quietly. "You didn't just suddenly change your mind about dragging poor, pathetic, invalided _me_ along for kicks. You and Molly arranged this."

"I think 'arranged' is far too organised a word for it. Suffice it to say that when she noticed that you'd moved the gun the other night, she was a little... concerned. It was all I could do to convince her you'd only been cleaning it." Sherlock took another drag. "But you weren't just cleaning it, were you."

"No, I killed someone with it," John responded acidly. "Had to be done. It was a bit of a hassle burying the body on my own, but what can I say? I don't like it when people renege on loans."

"And I don't like it when irrational, crying women wielding dangerous weaponry make their way into my flat and start issuing demands. If you want to play at target practice out in the Epping Forest, let your wife know about it beforehand. It would certainly have saved me a lot of grief."

"Just why should I be trying to avoid causing you grief, again?"

Sherlock smiled reluctantly, conceding the point. "John, I think we can agree that I am the last person on earth you should go to for relationship advice-"

"Seconded."

"But I'm told it's customary for married couples to communicate verbally on occasion."

John looked at Sherlock blankly. He sighed and stretched his legs.

"You've taken that gun out five... no, _six_ times in the last five weeks," he announced. "No doubt you did so the _second_ that you were physically able to, and that Molly was at work for a full shift. After all, you had to get it somewhere remote enough that nobody would hear it or be likely to be hurt by it. And all of the previous five times, you managed to put that gun back in _exactly_ the same position you left it. Obvious. You clearly knew that Molly either had raided that drawer in the past or was likely to in the future, or you wouldn't have bothered being careful all those previous times. That you neglected it the sixth time indicates a cry for help- possibly deliberately, more likely unconsciously. Molly saw it because you _wanted_ her to see it."

John flinched. It all seemed so _ridiculous_ now; he'd been blindly flailing about in darkness with no notion of what he was really doing. "I didn't mean to upset her..."

Sherlock stubbed out his cigarette and threw the butt away, then stood up and turned for the door. "I wouldn't lose sleep over it. Your wife is easily the most forgiving person in the country. And I think you alarmed her more with your declaration of love to Harry over the phone the other night."

"Well, I do. Love her, I mean."

Sherlock paused, his hand on the door; then he turned to him.

"Yes," he mused. "And I imagine that if Harry disappeared, you'd want to know where she was."

* * *

John had been right: Sherlock could be ruthless and manipulative while interviewing witnesses, twisting information out of almost anybody, but he was not in the business of kind little chats. For this reason, he'd decided that it was necessary to send John in to talk to George Edalji on his own.

"Before you ask, he won't talk much to Lestrade, either," he pointed out. The three of them were standing in the prison carpark; it was ten to nine in the morning, and Sherlock was pacing around as he thought. "That was our biggest mistake- representing ourselves as the police right from the beginning. Given how badly his case was handled by the local force, perhaps we can't blame him for being wary of anyone he associates with law enforcement. Let's hope his past experience with doctors has been good."

"Why would he talk to me?" John objected. "I don't even know him."

" _Because_ you don't even know him," was the confident reply. "People do talk to you, I've noticed. Odd phenomenon." It was. John was constantly attracting unsolicited conversation from complete strangers, whether he was on a train or in a supermarket or on a crowded street. He was particularly popular with little old ladies, and blustery, affable men of about his own age who addressed him as 'mate.' "I suppose it's because you do look rather... docile," Sherlock conceded.

John arced up slightly, before deciding to take that as a compliment. Sherlock Holmes had more reason than any other person on earth to know that no matter what John Watson _looked_ like, he was not docile.

"And you want me to go through this." Sherlock had handed John a notepad and pen; he was flicking through pages that Sherlock had scribbled out in his own personal shorthand. Pages... and more pages. "All of this? I don't know if he'll be happy to be grilled on every detail of his private life."

"Well you don't have to grill him. Make it sound... friendly... and try not to make a mess of it. I'll meet you out here at ten." He turned to open the car door again. John stepped forward in alarm.

"Wait, so where are you two going?"

"George isn't the only person we've spoken to here who's been lying through his teeth." Sherlock slammed the car door behind him.

* * *

The low security unit had even lower security than John had supposed it would. After showing his ID and authorised clearance papers, and being halfheartedly checked for weapons or drugs, he was shown into the dim little interview room, with its threadbare carpet and painted concrete walls. George Edalji was not there yet; John had a moment to ponder who would go to the trouble of painting concrete grey, of all colours. He snapped back to reality when door opened and George was shown in. The prisoner stopped briefly in the doorway. Although John knew that George had been told who it was he was going to speak with, he was clearly taken aback by him.

Perhaps, John reflected, perhaps he'd expected another version of Sherlock Holmes.

"John Watson," he said mildly, standing up and offering George his hand. "I believe you're expecting me? Pleasure to meet you."

George took his hand, but his handshake was limp and sluggish; he was looking John over warily. "You work for the police?"

John considered for a second how best to respond to this. Technically, Sherlock now did- and the admission wasn't going to encourage George to say any more about his circumstances. But so far, nobody had asked _him_ to sign any contracts.

"No," he finally said. "I don't. I'm a doctor, actually."

"Why would I need a doctor?"

This struck John as rather overdefensive. And in his experience, the more vehemently a person protested that they didn't need to see a doctor, the higher likelihood they had of passing out then and there. "Do you?" he asked calmly.

"No."

"Good to hear it, then. Anyway, I'm not here as a doctor, exactly. Sherlock Holmes asked me to come and talk to you."

"What about?"

"Well, I dunno." John shrugged. "We can talk about anything you want- or not talk at all, if you prefer. But if I were you, I'd be keen to talk about how I didn't kill that pony."

"Well, I didn't."

"We know you didn't. But 'I didn't' and not a lot else got you in here, and it isn't really going to help us get you out." John sighed. "Look, I've got no doubt at all that Sherlock was his usual friendly self to you the other day and you wanted to punch him for it, right?"

George smothered a smile, and John returned him one.

"Hey, _I've_ punched him. So's DI Lestrade. It's really, really satisfying when he's at his worst." George was smiling broadly now. John noticed that his whole face changed when he smiled. "So I know you two probably got off on the wrong foot the other day. If it helps, I'm sorry he was so annoying. But we're actually here trying to help you, so it'd perhaps be a good idea if you started cooperating."

George's smile faded; he looked down for a second.

"Now, I'm not an idiot," John spoke pleasantly. "I can read, and I've had a look at the case files. It says that when the police arrived at your place the morning after it happened, your shoes were soaking wet and covered in mud."

"I-"

"And you really didn't have a good answer as to why they were like that." John shrugged. "So where were you?"

George returned his gaze stonily. "At home. In bed."

John nodded. That was clearly a line that George was determined to stick to, even though it was a lie he'd been sentenced to prison over. No point in pushing it. "Okay," he said mildly. "So what about Sarah? I know you're worried about her." In actuality, both Sherlock and Lestrade had already commented on how nobody in the family seemed the slightest bit concerned over Sarah's welfare and whereabouts. "And I can understand that. It's normal to worry about someone you love."

George returned him a sulky look.

"So." John shifted in his seat, "If you and your dad actually want us to find her, you're probably best off not lying to us about where she is. We've made enquiries in London. No evidence she was ever there."

* * *

"Where's Sarah, Mr Edalji? Just between you and me."

Sherlock, having time to spare while John interviewed George, had arranged to meet the blind parson in the dilapidated graveyard of his own church. Edalji had come, bringing Ruth with him to guide him by the hand through the tombs. She brought him to Sherlock under the chestnut trees and sat him down on a worn granite slab, then murmured that she'd be back for him shortly and left them.

Sherlock had been more interested in Ruth than in her father this time. She was a plain girl with a thin, angular face, a prominent chin and a mess of thick, frizzy dark hair sticking out at all angles. Even yet, Sherlock had not really heard her voice, and he had no idea what she was like except that she was twenty-six, lived with her parents, and had no job. Ruth's primary role in life seemed to be to serve as her father's eyes.

And why, Sherlock pondered, should that be? Bit odd, that they'd keep Ruth on such a short leash. That's what guide dogs and canes were for.

So Edalji had come in response to his summons. So far, so good. But that didn't mean much. After all, he had been welcoming the first time; it didn't in the least mean he was going to tell the truth or be co-operative.

"I don't know where Sarah is, Mr Holmes," he said placidly.

"See, I'm not sure I believe that. Inspector Lestrade would microchip _his_ daughter if it was legal and practical. I'm told it's quite common among fathers with daughters of a certain age. And you're not bothered about where Sarah is?"

"Sarah is no longer under my roof, and she's of age. Why shouldn't she go where she likes?"

A deflection, Sherlock noted instantly. Responding to a question with another question. "What about Ruth?" he asked. "She's older than Sarah, and yet you seem to keep rather close tabs on her. She seems to do not a lot other than lead you about all day."

Instantly, Sherlock realised he'd overstepped cordiality. Perfectly all right for a criminal interrogation; Bit Not Good for a chat with an elderly clergyman in a shady graveyard. Edalji was offended; he was clamming up fast. "I filed a police report for Sarah, Mr Holmes, as you told me to," he said stiffly.

Sherlock sighed. This line of enquiry was being stonewalled. Time to change tactics. "So tell me about Sarah," he said, trying to soften his tones to be more sympathetic.

".. I beg your pardon?"

"Well, I have her name, date of birth, weight, height and photograph. So tell me something beyond statistics. What was she like?"

Edalji was silent for a few moments, contemplating. Finally, he sighed. "She was a good girl, Mr Holmes. I loved her very much."

Sherlock permitted himself a slight twitch of the lip, since the parson couldn't see him.

_Past tense? Bit odd for her to assume she's dead like that. Sarah is alive. Her father knows it. And I'll bet she's anything other than a good girl._

* * *

"Ruth, is it?"

Lestrade had expected to be Sherlock's chaffeur to the churchyard, but he'd not expected to find an opportunity to speak to Ruth Edalji for the first time. Seeing her come out of the cemetery gate, he'd got out of the car and crossed the lane to go to her. She startled at the sound of his voice and paused, one hand still on the gate. "Yes?"

"Hi, I'm Greg." He offered her his hand. She looked at it hesitantly for a few moments, as if she wasn't sure what to do with it, then reluctantly shook it. He noted how limp her hand felt in his, but had no idea what to make of that.

"You were in church on Sunday," she said. She had a soft voice; deeper than he had expected. "I'm sorry. I was going to come over to welcome you and your friend, but I got distracted."

"That's okay. You know what we're here about, right?"

"You're here to help George. He didn't do that horrible thing, Mr...?" she paused in confusion. Not, Lestrade thought, the type to call a police officer and a stranger by his first name, even if that's the one he'd introduced himself with.

"Lestrade."

She smiled. "That's a nice name. It sounds... fancy..."

And then she promptly turned red and clamped one hand over her mouth in self-conscious condemnation. "I'm sorry," she blurted out.

"My father'd have fits if he was here to hear you say that," Lestrade smiled, perfectly at ease. "I think he was the least fancy person in England. But yes, we're here to help George. Your mother called us in from London. Is she home today?"

"She's in town this afternoon... I think she'll be home tonight if you want to talk to her."

Lestrade nodded. He was struggling already. This Ruth girl- and a girl she was, even though she was only a year or two younger than Melissa- reminded him of Molly, back when she'd been little Molly Hooper, just out of university. Bright and sweet- and cripplingly shy.

"Okay," he said cheerfully, putting his hands in his pockets. "Well, we're not quite sure what we're about yet, but I'm sure we'll be along to talk to her at some stage. And you're here with your dad?"

"He needs me to help him around a little."

"Ah, yes, of course." Lestrade paused. "Well, that's a good thing you're doing, to help him. All the same, must be inconvenient for you, to have to go wherever he does."

"I don't really mind."

"Okay." There was another long pause. "We're also looking for Sarah," he said, in tones that implied he was confiding in her.

At this, Ruth looked up at him properly for the first time. "Sarah?"

"You know your father reported her missing, finally?"

Ruth's hand was still on the gate; glancing at it, Lestrade noted that it clenched its hold on the iron bar under it. "No," she murmured. "I didn't know."

"And you don't know where she is?"

Ruth shook her head. "No," she said softly. "I don't. Sorry."

Lestrade paused; then he fumbled to open his wallet, digging around behind his bank card. "Ruth," he said, "will you take my number? Just in case you ever want to call me."

She looked confused; he held the card out to her and she hesitated, then took it in two fingers. "Why would I want to call you?" she asked.

"No reason. Any reason. If there's something you want to talk about... about George... or Sarah, maybe. Call me, please. The rest of the police don't have to know."

* * *

"Did you get on with Sarah?"

George grit his teeth. "Yes," he said. "I love her very much."

John wrote _Prs/T_ on the notepad he held. Sherlock would definitely want to know about that later. "But she had a fight with your mother. What was that all about?"

"I don't know."

"You didn't ask?"

"No."

John made a face. "Really?" he said lightly. "'Cause I've got a sister, and it sounds like we don't get on anywhere near as well as you and Sarah do. But if she disappeared, I'd definitely ask where she was and why she went."

"I told you. She's in London. I don't know where exactly."

"Do you remember how she left here? Train? Bus? Did she walk, or did someone come to pick her up...?"

George faltered for a few seconds. "I... I don't remember, sorry," he blurted out.

"Okay." John shifted in his seat. George was obviously not going to talk much about the day Sarah left. "But you've got another brother and sister, don't you?"

"Two brothers. Malachi and Jonah."

"You get along with Malachi?"

"Yes."

"And what about Jonah?"

The atmosphere chilled instantly. John, pausing to remember the layout of a keyboard he used daily, wrote "Kpmsj" down in his notepad. He knew too well the urge to read what someone else was writing about you. And Jonah was another thing Sherlock would want to know about- he'd mentioned something about Malachi and Jonah not getting the night before, but nothing about how George felt about his brothers.

"Jonah is my brother."

John smiled. "That's not what I asked you. You're being your own worst enemy..." he leaned back in his chair- then suddenly sat forward again. He was looking carefully at George, whose gaze had suddenly shifted.

George, seeing that he was being scrutinised, withdrew in confusion. "What?"

"You." John brought out the notebook and pen again; he wrote something down, then tore the paper off, pulled his chair out slightly and held it up at shoulder height. "George," he said placidly, "could you read that out for me, please?"

"Why?"

"Why not? It's a simple enough request."

George blinked; then he squinted hard. A few seconds passed in silence.

"No, don't guess." John folded the paper. On it, he had written the man's own name in two-inch-high letters. George _hadn't_ been taken aback by him when he'd entered the room; he'd paused because he could barely make him out. "So you're extremely short-sighted, then. You don't wear glasses or contacts for that?"

"I'm _not_ short-sighted."

"George, come on." John spoke in low tones. "Pretty sure you could barely see me at all when I moved outside of your sight-range, which looks like it's about four feet. I know your father's got the same thing, and that he's gone blind from it." George flinched. "It can't be a great feeling to have a degenerative condition at your age. Especially when you can see the effect it's had on someone who's had it for longer. I'm going to see if we can organise for an opthalmologist to come in here and give you a proper eye exam."

"Why?"

"Because you need glasses." John stood up. "I'll be in touch, George. Thank you for meeting with me."

* * *

Sherlock and Lestrade were not there when John went back out to the carpark; he was way too early, so he killed time with two cups of coffee in the Visitors Centre and waited outside for some time more. Finally, the car pulled in and Sherlock got out of it before Lestrade had even fully braked.

"Did he tell you anything interesting?" he demanded, hurrying up the front steps to him.

"Well, yes. Though I'm not sure if _tell_ would be the right word. You're right, Sherlock, I'd bet houses he's innocent."

And John had no intentions of giving Sherlock the information he sought too early, either. He stood impassively until Sherlock waved for him to continue. "Well?"

"You said Dennis James' witness statement had one weird fact- he said that when he saw George in the lane, he didn't have a torch or any other light on him."

"Yes."

"Nice detail if you want people to never question why they didn't see a light that night. But while he's got a good routine hiding it, George has degenerative myopia."

Sherlock paused. "So he can't see anything at all at a distance."

"More than that. He's almost totally night-blind. He wouldn't even be able to _find_ that pony in low light."


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a non-graphic discussion around the subject of a tortured animal. It's really very mild, but might upset sensitive readers.

"Well, we already knew that George didn't have anything to do with the pony, so your little interview didn't really tell us _that_ much, John."

They were back in the motel at Cannock and congregated in Sherlock's room. He was noticeably defensive at John's relative success. The great sulking detective was stretched out defiantly on his bed and, John knew, wondering if it was worthwhile lighting up a cigarette indoors.

"Don't make me say it, Sherlock," Lestrade told him. He was raiding the kitchenette for instant coffee. Sherlock sighed.

"Yes," he conceded tersely. "John also uncovered the obvious fact that Dennis James could not possibly have been _mistaken_ about what he said he saw. The amount of detail in his report of that night was always suggestive, considering that if it had happened like he _said_ it had happened, he'd have only seen George for a few seconds. So he lied. Why did he lie?"

"... He didn't like George...?" John hesitated.

"Thank you for that brilliant analysis. Of _course_ he didn't like George. _Why not?"_

"Well... I dunno." John reached out and took a cup of coffee from Lestrade. No use in being offended at Sherlock's attitude. "Didn't Caroline tell you it was racially motivated?"

"She did, and she was lying, too. We're only a few miles out of a multicultural city. I refuse to believe that _Great Wyrley is entirely populated with racists,_ John. Stretching credibility a little too far, don't you think?"

John shrugged. "These small towns, Sherlock... they can be odd like that, almost like their own little kingdoms. Plenty of racism where I grew up, let me tell you."

"The West Country wasn't all that great for cultural diversity, either," Lestrade put in.

Sherlock sighed in exasperation. "Quite aside from _nowhere_ having modern standards of cultural diversity forty years ago, anecdotal evidence is not the equivalent of empirical data, and if you two bore me with Small Village Tales for the next- "

"There's another thing you didn't mention," John cut Sherlock off. "Jonah Edalji. There's not a lot of love lost there between him and George. And you said Jonah's fallen out with Malachi as well?"

"So it would seem. Pretty sure _that's_ not racially motivated."

John sighed heavily. Sherlock _hated_ being one-upped, proven wrong, or found to have ever missed the tiniest skerrick of detail. This childish little performance was going to go on for hours. Maybe even days.

* * *

"How long had the pony been dead when these pictures were taken?"

It had taken all of Lestrade's persuasiveness- and some passive rank-pulling- to convince the Chesney Hay officers to allow Sherlock full access to all of the crime photographs. They were now congregating in the dated, over-lit office of one DS Kevin Overton of the CID, with the 8X12 colour prints spread out all over the man's desk. Overton was a plump, bald, plodding little man who had instantly disliked Lestrade. The feeling was very close to mutual.

"They reckon 'bout twelve hours, maybe," was his gruff response.

"That long?"

"Field's in the middle of nowhere." Overton sounded grievously offended. "It was that long before anyone found it."

Sherlock's eyes flickered back and forth, as they always did when he was thinking rapidly. John, glancing across and seeing this, knew- absolutely _knew_ \- that Sherlock's brain now had a file entitled "Edalji Case" in it, and the eye flicker indicated he was uploading this information to that file. "Who found it?" he asked Overton.

"Couple of kids cutting across the field to get to the main road."

"God, not the kid who _owned_ it," Lestrade groaned.

"No, luckily. Emmy Harcourt had noticed the pony was missing that morning, but her parents just thought it'd broken out and hadn't got far."

"They thought it had broken out of a field with a shut gate and an intact fence?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Has Emmy Harcourt got herself any enemies, Sergeant?"

"She's _ten_ , Mr. Holmes."

"That isn't in the least what I asked you-"

"Oh, God, that is _vile_ ," Lestrade interrupted. Sherlock had turned over one particularly gruesome close-up, and turned to him briefly.

"Do kindly remember you are a homicide detective, Inspector," he clipped.

"It's different when it's an animal." Lestrade pulled a face. Then, seeing Sherlock's completely unbelieving look, "I don't know how, but it just is."

"Sentiment, Sherlock," John explained. "A lot of people have a more... I dunno... raw reaction to when an animal gets hurt than when it's a person." He was thinking of a dog hit by a jeep at Fort Bastion. Sherlock frowned, obviously and genuinely struggling with this notion. "Action movies and that. Pretty much any adult male is bullet-fodder, but people lose it if they kill off the dog."

"So people feel more sorry for a suffering animal than a suffering human," he mused quietly. "Why?"

John shrugged. "I guess people think that animals are more innocent."

"People can be innocent."

"Well, yeah, I suppose they can. But I think we both know they usually aren't. I don't know," he trailed off. "Just the way people are."

Sherlock was lost in thought for almost half a minute as he processed this; he seemed so fixated on the whole issue that John was tempted to ask him why. But then, that had never worked out for him in the past. Sherlock didn't like explaining deep thoughts to shallow people. Abruptly, he snapped out of his reverie. "John," he said in rather different tones, "do you think the work done here would suggest someone with anatomical knowledge?"

"I'm not a vet."

"Well, no one's perfect."

John sighed and looked over the pictures carefully. Greg was right to be disgusted. They were graphic and detailed, as all crime scene photographs were meant to be, and taken at a variety of focal lengths and focus points. "Well... maybe," he conceded. "It's hard to tell what's knowledge and what's beginner's luck, Sherlock. I think I'd say whoever did it knew butchery at the very least. And in a place like this, that's probably a lot of people."

Sherlock sighed. "Please tell me that, as a doctor, you've noticed the most important thing."

"Throat not cut," John responded immediately.

"Indeed." Sherlock's eyes glimmered slightly, as they always did when John was unexpectedly astute. "So how do you suppose they subdued the pony?"

"... Hit it on the head?"

This time John was treated to an exasperated sigh and a heavy eye roll. Sherlock picked up one of the photographs and shoved it at him. "John, once again you're looking at the photograph but _refusing to observe..._ "

John took the photograph- a closeup of the pony's head- in his hand and looked it over thoughtfully for a few seconds. "No marks on the head," he finally said.

"So you see, then."

"Yes..." John paused for a few seconds, reasoning it out. Then he shook his head. "No, I don't think I see, Sherlock."

"The pony was gutted while it was still alive, and probably conscious."

* * *

"When I said, 'we are not experimenting on a live horse', I kind of didn't mean 'let's meet together in a butcher's cool-room and take stabs at a dead one', Sherlock."

Sherlock had somehow convinced the owners of JH Parsons and Sons to allow the three of them into said cool-room; they were standing around in the roomy refrigerator, stamping feet and coughing vapour. Sherlock had just put a large butcher's knife in John's hand.

"Strange horse that would have an udder," was his contemptuous response. He patted the nearby strung-up carcass almost affectionately, and it wobbled slightly on its hook. "Close enough- close as I could get my hands on at such short notice."

"Okay. _Why?"_

 _"_ Because I'm almost convinced that it's impossible for any lone person to have eviscerated that pony alive, particularly while using only the type of blade Dennis James said George Edalji had," Sherlock put his hands in his pockets smugly. "It's a fine hypothesis, but like all hypotheses, it must be put to the test."

"Right." John sighed. "So why am _I_ doing it?"

"Because you're the one who _doesn't see,"_ was the triumphant response. John thought there was something else in it, though- a touch of: _and you're the one who I've been assured is no longer an invalid._ "Think of it as a learning experience and do hurry up, it's cold in here."

Lestrade, rolling his eyes, seeemed to quite agree.

John had never experimented with advanced butchery in his life, but he had solid experience with autopsies, and quickly found the place under the sternum that he wanted. The knife was sharp; even so, the carcass wobbled on its hook as he pushed the blade in. When he drew the knife down, it swayed violently out; he caught it and brought it to with his free hand, but scrabbled to get a sufficient handhold on it. The knife snagged, twice. He could not get a clean cut in anywhere deep or long enough to properly eviscerate it.

"Nope," he finally conceded, watching in a kind of passive disgust as globs of fat and muscle dropped onto the floor. "I mean, I can do it _sort of_ , but nothing like we saw, nothing that clean."

"Perhaps," Sherlock suggested politely, "if Lestrade and I held it steady for you, you could manage?"

"Yes, I think that'd-" John stopped short, looking at him. He blinked involuntarily as the penny dropped rather violently. "The pony," he hesitated. "If it was alive when someone was struggling to wield the knife..."

Sherlock nodded. "If you can't hold onto an inanimate carcass swinging on a hook, I will give a hundred thousand pounds to any man who can successfully gut a live, struggling pony on his own. Whoever our mutilator is, he had help. Lots of help, I imagine."

"Wait-wait-wait," Lestrade broke in for the first time. He'd kept his mouth shut until now, partly because he suspected if he said a word the knife would be given to him instead. "Lots of help? You mean, like a gang?"

"Definitely."

"A gang of people stole a pony- a kid's birthday present- out of a field, brought it to another, and gutted it _while it was alive?_ What the hell is wrong with people in this town?"

"Quite a lot, it seems."

* * *

"Mr James, we have been experimenting on this matter all afternoon. Myself and my colleages can all assure you that what you, the local force and the team for the prosecution have suggested that George Edalji did that night is entirely impossible."

They'd accessed the crime scene photographs due to Lestrade, and the walk-in refrigerator because of Sherlock; that they'd amazingly been allowed inside the James household had mostly been due to John's social skills. Police? No, we're not _really_ the police. I mean, this is not an official investigation. Just came 'round for a nice chat. Wanted to clarify some things in the witness statement, please. Nice garden you've got, do you do it all yourself?

Inside of five seconds of being let in the front door, Sherlock had taken note of almost everything of importance.

_Dennis' hands- labourer of some kind. Accent very clean for it. Advanced artisan of some kind who's probably highly skilled. The relative expense of the house also indicates it- Anne's extremely unwell and probably hasn't worked in a long time. Cancer, perhaps. She wasn't just asleep in the car that night; she was more than likely closer to unconscious. Married at least fifteen years, judging by the style of Anne's engagement ring, but no children. They probably planned them- three-bedroom house where two-bedrooms are more common and cheaper. Anne comes from culture if not wealth. Local culture, probably- these small villages do tend to have royal families- portraits on the sideboard that seem to date from the 1930s and earlier, all of them Anne's ancestors. She married beneath her, and given the bewildering range of romance novels on the bookshelf over there that are clearly not her husband's choice of reading material, she married him for love-_

Despite her illness, Anne- a lean woman with dark hair who, before her illness, had clearly been built like a greyhound- had made tea for all of them. Dennis had then sent her off to bed, and was cradling the china cup in sinewy hands that looked like slabs of meat. He and Sherlock Holmes had not got off to a great start together, as usually happened when Sherlock confronted people for being liars.

"We tried," John put in. "I mean, not on an actual pony. But we tried it out on a cow's carcass- George couldn't've killed that pony on his own in the dark, Mr. James. Nobody could. Didn't happen."

Dennis curled his fingers around the cup in his hand. "I never said I saw him actually do it," he said. "I just told the police what I saw that night. Dunno. Maybe he had help."

"And who exactly in this village likes George enough to help him do a thing like that, Mr. James?"

There was a moment of silence. Sherlock watched Dennis' gaze flicker toward the bedroom where his wife slept for a brief second, and then back again.

"People hate them, don't they," Lestrade put in, and he wasn't posing a question. Sherlock was tensely standing near the door and John had politely taken his place on the sofa, but Lestrade, true to form, had flopped down in the armchair like he owned the place. "The whole clan of them. Why's that?"

Dennis paused significantly. A few hesitant stops-and-starts; he was clearly debating what to say. "They're not right, you know," was the disappointingly cryptic response. "None of them are."

"How's that?" Lestrade asked him.

"Dunno. They're like their own little... cult. Don't let others in."

"They let Rebecca in," John pointed out.

Dennis laughed into his cup. "No. I think everyone except Malachi hates her."

"Why?"

"Because she's a stone-cold bitch, that's why." Sherlock glanced down at the cup Dennis held. Shaking. Slightly, but perceptibly, visible even from the other side of the living room. Whatever the rest of the Edalji family or the rest of the village thought of Rebecca Edalji, it was clear what Dennis James thought of her. _Rather a personal response._ "Thinks she's so much better than everyone else because she's not from 'round here. And I'll tell you something else for your trouble. It isn't that lad of Sharp that Hannah Stoneham's interested in."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Dennis James didn't know it, but he was conducting a speedscan on every detail of the witness's face, from his eyebrows to his earlobes, and every word that came out of his mouth. Finally, he stepped forward. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"So she's fooled you with the butter-wouldn't-melt routine?"

The mood broke; Sherlock dropped his shoulders and took a deep breath. "Oh, _that_ ," he said in mild disgust. "Lestrade, what did I tell you the other day? Sex makes for a boring case. Hannah turn you down, did she, Mr. James? Rebecca Edalji too, I'll bet."

Dennis' expression suddenly changed. "What do you mean?" he asked tersely. Sherlock shifted in his chair, draping his coat around his knees.

"You know exactly what I mean," he responded. "There's more to this than meets the eye, isn't there. We checked, Dennis. You and Anne were regulars at St. Mark's until last November."

Dennis glanced down. "Yeah," he muttered. "We stopped going when Anne got sick-"

"Not quite. Correlation and causation," Sherlock told him. "When Anne got sick, you went to see if you could get some- let's say, _pastoral care_ \- from Rebecca Edalji-"

"Sherlock," John warned.

"- And when she turned you down, you tried Hannah Stoneham. _She_ was quite forceful in rejecting you, wasn't she? And I note that you haven't mentioned Ruth Edalji as being one of those cold-hearted teases like Rebecca and Hannah. Did you succeed with her, then?"

" _Sherlock-!"_

"Is that why Shapuriji Edalji told you _not to come back to his church?"_

Before the now red-faced, open-mouthed man could respond, Sherlock's phone suddenly squealed for attention. He glanced at it briefly, intending to turn it off; but the caller ID display stopped him dead in his tracks.

_Hannah._

"Excuse me. You can tell Dr. Watson and Inspector Lestrade all about Ruth for the moment," he growled, stepping out into the hall, shutting the connecting door behind him and putting the phone to his ear. "Sherlock Holmes."

He felt confident the woman wanted a detective this time, not a date.

For a second, there was no response. He was about to repeat himself when a small sound stopped him; the slightest snag of her breath. He waited.

"Hi, Sherlock?" was the gentle, bright greeting. "I'm so sorry, but I think I'm going to have to cancel our... drinks..."

 _Won't call it a date. Someone's back, and he's not pleased._ "I'm sorry to hear that," he responded, as pleasantly as Sherlock was ever capable of. "Is everything all right?"

Another snag. Another half-second pause that said more than half an hour of talking would have. "Oh yes," was her response. "Everything's fine. Something came up, that's all."

It was a point that Sherlock stood by. Never, ever was _everything_ fine. "Hannah," he said calmly, "are you at home?"

"Yes. But-"

"I'm coming over now. Leave the door unlocked for me- if it's still on its hinges."


	12. Girl Help

As Sherlock had expected, Hannah's dining room table and everything on it had been violently overturned onto the floor, and there was a deep hole punched in the wall near the front entry. Sherlock glanced from that crater to the pale, dry-eyed woman sitting on the sofa and back again.

_Right next to her head. Nerves of steel._

"I'm afraid I've caused you rather a lot of trouble," he said as he took his scarf off, hanging it on the back of the door handle when he failed to find a hook. He was edging carefully, unsure of how much Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Detective to put into his words, and how much Sherlock Holmes: Lovelorn and Dateless. "I'm sorry. I had no idea when I asked you about Saturday that Ryan would actually hurt you about it."

"Oh, he didn't," she sighed, without looking up at him.

"He never does, does he," Consulting Detective commented, coldly shoving Lovelorn-and-Dateless aside. He sat down beside her on the sofa with a casual little bounce, but was careful to keep distance between them. "Just throws things around, yells a bit and storms out again. I'll give you a little hint: he doesn't do it because he loves you, Hannah."

"Mind your own business."

"When your domestic dramas impede my investigation like this, they become my business," was the lofty response. "Hannah, why don't Malachi and Jonah like each other?"

She looked across at him silently for a few seconds, as if he'd suddenly gone mad. "Oh, it's a long story," she finally sighed.

"I'll make coffee, then."

"It's really not as exciting as you think," Hannah got up and followed Sherlock into the kitchen, hovering over him as he fumbled around filling the kettle and guessed by process of deduction where the coffee cups and spoons were kept.

"Well then, tell me the whole boring story," he said enthusiastically, now hunting down sugar.

"There's not even a story, really." She pointed out the sugar bowl. "A personality clash is all. Malachi- likes to push people around. Oh, I don't mean literally-" seeing Sherlock pause. "I mean, he's just... dominant. You'll know it if you meet him. Comes into a room and expects everyone to pay attention to him. Likes to pretend he's the patriarch, especially since Uncle Shap went blind."

"But he's younger than George?"

Hannah snorted. "Yes, he is. Have you met George?"

"Yes."

"Then you'd know he's not the type to push for control. Poor gentle soul, just wants to be told what to do all the time because he can't think of what he wants for himself."

"Indeed?" Sherlock was now hunting around the refrigerator after milk, and meanwhile taking stock of everything in there and how it related to Hannah as a person. Organic milk, but jarred minced garlic. He'd sort of suspected the milk, but...

"Why else would he live at home when he's that age?" she asked him, hovering over him suspiciously and wrapping her thin hands about her arms. "I love Uncle Shap and Aunt Caroline, but I think if I had to live with Aunt Caroline and her meddling I'd lose my mind."

"Or you'd assimilate and let her dominate your life, as George has done."

She shot him an icy look. "I wouldn't do that."

He shrugged. "And yet you're prepared to overlook the hole your boyfriend punched in the wall over there. Odd how a thing like love can change the way we act. The way we see the world."

Sherlock had a feeling that this was probably not the most tactful thing to say. It was the main reason he had refused to take John and Lestrade with him out to Hannah's. He'd known that they'd be sure to impede his questioning of Hannah by treating her like a broken little bird.

"Ryan's none of your business," she repeated obstinately.

"He lashed out at you because he heard somewhere about our meeting on Saturday - possibly found my number in your phone book," Sherlock commented easily as he handed her the cup of coffee. "But I'm new on the scene, and can't be blamed for all the other times. Who does he get jealous of, Hannah? Is it Jonah?"

"Don't be revolting."

Sherlock shrugged, noting that she was disgusted but not surprised at the accusation. _Obviously something she's had thrown at her before._ "Many cultures around the world think consanguinity and intermarriage is perfectly normal. Even desireable."

"Well, ours isn't one of them."

He smiled and sipped his coffee. "Doesn't square with your beliefs, I suppose. But didn't your Biblical counterpart marry her cousin?"

"Not that I know of. She was the mother of the Prophet Samuel."

Sherlock decided to let this one go. Probably no useful leads there. "Hannah," he said bluntly, "did you ever sleep with Dennis James?"

"No!"

"Did he ever try?"

She smiled wryly, though she'd started to tear up a little, and coughed slightly over her coffee. "Poor sod," she muttered, and Sherlock blinked; not a strong word by any stretch of the imagination, but one he'd really not expected from a parson's niece. "Yes, he tried. When I say 'try', I mean he made the most pathetic attempt imaginable, and I thought he was going to cry when I slapped his hand away."

"And Rebecca? He tried it on her too, didn't he?"

She shrugged. "It's possible."

"You don't talk to Rebecca much, then," Sherlock decided, noting her body language. No animosity toward Rebecca. Just a great deal of apathy. "What about Ruth?"

"Oh, it wouldn't have been Ruth," she insisted quickly - too quickly, Sherlock immediately noted. He looked her over again; she met his gaze this time.

"You sound so sure of that," he remarked.

"I am." She leaned back up against the sink, stretching her legs out slightly. "Dennis James is a bigot, and Ruth's more of Uncle Shap's child than George is, in that respect... I, um, sorry, I'm being rude..."

Sherlock, watching her carefully, could see that this sudden topic-wobble was not an obfuscation or an act. Her hands had started to shake; the adrenaline low had finally started to interfere with her mental faculties.

"I... I mean, if you want to talk to Mal and Jo and everyone... it's Rebecca's birthday on Friday night," she continued. For a second, Sherlock wondered if it were worthwhile offering her a cigarette to calm her nerves. "Nothing exciting, you know, just a family gathering. I suppose there'll be cake. I was going to take Ryan with me, but obviously now..."

"They know me as a detective on George's case, Hannah," he told her. "I can only imagine what they're going to think if I show up as your _date_ -"

"Oh, I don't care what Aunt Caroline thinks." She swiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I'm tired of everybody caring what Aunt Caroline thinks. The things we'd do, the fun we'd all have, if it weren't for the worry of what Aunt Caroline thinks!"

"Okay," he said after a short pause. "Fine. What time?"

* * *

"What happened?"

Lestrade, meeting Sherlock in the dark motel courtyard shortly after nine, had a right to ask, since Sherlock had taken his car to Cheslyn Hay without telling him what he wanted it for in advance. Lestrade had trusted both his driving skills and his insistence that it was a matter of discretion and not of danger, but that didn't mean Sherlock wasn't going to have to explain it all later.

"She's fine," he said casually, shutting the car door. "John," he called across, as John came down the steps to the gravel. "See if you can find-"

"Whoa, wait," Lestrade cut him off, touching his arm briefly to get his attention. "Wait, who's fine? And why wouldn't they be fine?"

"Oh, sorry, didn't I say? Hannah Stoneham called me from the James place." Sherlock had made it to the steps by this time. "Nasty boyfriend threw a bit of a tantrum at her and I've already _told_ you that she's fine, so stop it. Found out a few interesting things. She tried to tell me James is a racist."

"Oh, not _this_ again-"

"It's important, John. Everyone's telling us that the Edaljis aren't liked around here because of the parson's being Indian, and they're all hiding something because that is _clearly not the reason._ Hopefully, I'll be able to find out on Friday night."

Lestrade blinked. He and John were trailing around behind Sherlock, who had just stalked into his motel room and made a beeline for the kitchenette. He was wired already - too wired - and coffee was going to make him even more fun. "Jesus, Sherlock," he said. "Her boyfriend went at her and you're _still_ going on a date?"

"She's the one who asked me," Sherlock protested. "And I wouldn't call it a date- I don't plan to be there for long. You two will be, though. Any milk in your room, John? Mine's out.,."

"Oh my God, what are we doing now?" John ignored the question.

"Just attending a party. Rebecca Edalji's birthday party, to be exact."

There was a confused silence. Sherlock stamped his foot. "Don't _either_ of you see?" he demanded in despair. "Rebecca's birthday party is going to be held at her _house_. Her in-laws will all be there. Which means that Shapuriji and Caroline's house will be quite empty for the evening, and that gives me time to get on with some very important business there-"

John groaned. He'd almost forgotten that Sherlock was a talented and enthusiastic cat-burglar. "What are you after, Sherlock?"

"The one thing I have asked for multiple times, and which nobody has shown me yet. The poison-pen letters."

* * *

Leaving Sherlock and John bickering in the room about whether breaking into the parsonage was an "ethical burglary" and whether John should be allowed to join in on said "ethical burglary", Lestrade, fumbling for his pocket to check that he had his phone, slipped back out to the courtyard. Leaning up against the car, he thumbed in his own landline and waited while the line purred. Finally, Hayley picked up.

Well, at least she was _home._

"Hey, it's Dad," he said. 'How's everything down there?"

"Exactly the same way you left it," she promised him.

"Done your homework?"

_"Dad."_

"Well you've got exams coming up, haven't you? Can't be overprepared."

"Yes, you can," she countered, true to form. "If you cram it ruins your short-term memory and you can go into an exam not being able to remember how to spell your own _name."_

"Who told you that?"

"Melissa."

"I thought so. And I don't think that's true. I crammed for plenty of exams and I don't think I ever forgot my own name. Is she there? Put her on, please."

There was a brief muffled sound as Hayley put her hand over the mouthpiece; he could hear her calling Melissa gently. After a half a minute's pause, Melissa picked up. "Darling, I love you dearly but you are making me miss Supernatural."

"Miss it? You've got about nineteen seasons of it on DVD."

"That's not the point," she told him. "You know how important Jensen Ackles is to me."

As irrational and stupid as it was - and he knew it - Lestrade was vaguely jealous of Melissa's crush on Jensen Ackles. He was pretty sure she'd stay in a burning building just to rewatch the Eye of the Tiger bit. "Mel," he said in a low voice. "Come on."

She paused, registering his tone. "Okay. I was only kidding, Greg. What's the matter? It's a little late."

He paused for a second, wondering how to proceed. "I need some help. This town's closed ranks, Mel; and this investigation is going round and round in circles. Sherlock's been gallavanting about being his usual self-"

"I can imagine-"

"And nobody wants to talk to the police, either. Everyone knows me as a homicide detective; it's all over the place. Don't think anyone's called me _Mr._ Lestrade yet."

"Aww. _I'll_ call you Mr. Lestrade."

"Mel, you know what I mean and I'm serious. When we were talking to Dennis James, he threw some serious hints at how the locals see the Edalji family- something about them being like a cult. And then when we found out that a whole gang of people would have had to pitch in killing the pony... well, I'm wondering if it actually _is_ a cult."

"You know I'm not an expert on cults."

"No; you're an expert on getting 'round people, though. You're a friendly young woman-"

"Yes, in comparison to you, my darling cranky old man."

" _Mel._ You're a young woman, you're not known around here, and you don't come over like a law enforcement agent. I think if there's anyone who's likely to be able to get around the locals, it's you."

She paused, and he knew she was trying to sum up exactly how much of this he meant and how much was desperation and mild sexual frustration talking. "You're putting me on undercover assignment?"

"Yes. DC Brennan, I am putting you on undercover assignment. And that reminds me. Hayley'll have to go to her Mum's if you come up here."

"Greg, you know she and Jake have been sleeping-"

"My daughter is pristine and perfect and I really, really do not want to hear otherwise," he said. "Won't kill her to go to Julie's. She hasn't seen her brother in a while."

"Can't I bring her?"

Lestrade hadn't yet been able to tell Melissa how much it meant to him when she casually asked to bring Hayley places - not because she felt she had to, but because the two were friends and she wanted to. He smiled, hoping it wouldn't come out in his tone. "We're in the middle of an investigation into a possible multilation cult, Mel," he pointed out.

"That didn't really answer my question- oh, fine. You know I hate long drives, but just for you, Mr. Lestrade."

* * *

Molly had spent the previous day at Baker Street with Mrs Hudson- they'd cleaned 221B again, picking up a few interesting items along the way, some of which had had to be flushed down the toilet. Then it had been a trip out to Harry in the afternoon- she was in fairly good health and spirits, considering her crisis a few nights before. Then she'd come home and indulged in the sort of TV that John usually rolled his eyes at and went upstairs to play Tetris on his phone over. Brief call from John, too. He sounded happy. Sherlock was driving him insane, and that was exactly the way things should be.

But while John had run off at a moment's notice, Molly was still the family's paycheck. It was half-past eight- and she was bordering on late for work already, and once again trying to find her shoes- when there was an unexpected knock on the door. Opening it, she found Melissa there.

"Oh, hello," she said brightly, letting her come in despite the inconvenience of the moment. "It's lovely to see you. I'm just off to work-"

"Nope, you're taking leave," Melissa returned brightly.

"Leave? Why?"

"Greg called me last night- oh, it's okay, nothing's wrong. He says he just needs a bit of help up there."

"Help? What kind of help?"

"Girl help, apparently. Anyway, I _hate_ driving for that long on my own and could do with some company, and I bet you're still sweet enough on John to be missing him a bit. And I suppose you could also do with a bit of a holiday, before your life gets ruined for the next eighteen years." Melissa picked the landline receiver out of its cradle and handed it to Molly. "Go on." She smiled. "Be daring, and call in sick when you're _not actually sick."_

Molly hesitated. "What about the cats?"

"Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh, but she can't look after all of the cats, Mel, it wouldn't be-"

"Yes, she can, we'll take them around to her. You know she'd love it. Come on. Please? Chocolate may or may not be involved."

Molly screwed up her nose, smiled and accepted the receiver.


	13. On The Fringes

"So you really, really do not know if that _thing_ in you is a boy or a girl? God, you must have the patience of a saint. I'd go insane wondering."

Molly, who had been leaning her head against the car window watching the countryside rush past, stirred and smiled. "Well, we were going to find out," she said intrepidly. Talking about her sex life - and any impending results of her sex life - did not come easily to her, not even in front of someone she considered a friend. "And then on the day it... didn't happen like that. And we thought, well, it doesn't change anything to go out of our way to find out about it now."

"Well, I'm sure that it makes naming the kid beforehand a lot easier. Or have you already covered both those bases?"

If she was honest, Melissa wasn't overly interested in children - having her own, or engaging much with anyone else's. But it was what her friend wanted, and God knew that Molly Watson had done enough to deserve something nice happening to her for a change.

"Sort of," she responded. "We think Charlotte, if it's a girl."

"Well, thank God you didn't decide on Qwerty or something deranged like that," Melissa commented. Not, of course, that she expected two middle-class MDs named John and Mary Watson to name their firstborn child _Qwerty_. "Charlotte's an old fashioned name, where did that come from?"

"It was John's mother's name."

"He was close to his mother?"

"Yes." Molly was starting to look uncomfortable again at the mention of John's private life. "She died when he and Harry were seventeen."

"And his father?"

"John's the fourth John Watson in a row," Molly responded. It didn't answer Melissa's question, and the psychologist was quick to note it. "But he won't even think about 'John' for a boy. Not even as a middle name."

Melissa glanced at her out of the corner of her eye. "Issues with his father?"

"A few," was the brief, quiet response. "I don't even think he knows about the baby. Actually, I'm not even sure he knows we're married. I've never met him."

Melissa pondered this for a second. She wasn't close enough to John or Harry to wonder where they'd actually come from. So far as she was concerned, they were in existence now, and might as well have emerged from the ether.

But then, she supposed, even _Sherlock_ had been an actual child, and had actual parents, at some point.

John had nearly died last Christmas. And while it hadn't been a priority in her mind at the time, Melissa could not remember anyone ever mentioning John's father being notified that his son was having a medical emergency. "Where does he live?" she asked, trying to sound casual.

"In Essex." Molly glanced up at the BP service station looming up in the distance. "Can we stop off here, please?"

Melissa knew a topic change when she heard one, and did not press the issue.

* * *

"That's it?"

The three men were standing in the field off Jones' Lane again; John was seeing the scene of the crime for the first time. The day Lestrade and Sherlock had first been here had been drizzly, but this was a day of bright sunshine and mid-morning glare. Sherlock, to the surprise of nobody, was on the ground, squatting on his heels among the long grass. He had one of the crime scene photographs in his hand. He laid it on the ground, then shifted its direction slightly and looked up at John, who was standing close enough to cast a shadow over him. "Exactly it," he replied. "North-north-east."

"What does that mean?" Lestrade crossed his arms.

Sherlock got up and looked in the direction the photograph had been laid in, shielding his eyes against the glare with one hand. "Nothing," he said thoughtfully. "But it's suggestive."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. They were playing _this_ game again... this game of guess-what-Sherlock-is-thinking. "Of what?" he asked patiently.

"Bit of a slapdash effort for a _cult,_ don't you think? One of the most important things about a cult is their attention to ritual. Everything has meaning and little, if anything, is left to chance. A ritualistic killing would have certain implements used, certain methods of death, usually revolving around the spilling and use of blood- and the body would be left in a meaningful way. Here, we have a pony lying in a random heap after a senseless attack, and the weapon was found in a nearby ditch."

"Well, I suppose we'll find out soon enough about that, anyway," Lestrade responded. He'd been rather impressed by his guess at the outrages being the work of a cult. Sherlock, picking up on his tone, raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, really?"

Lestrade shuffled slightly. "Called Melissa last night," he confessed. "While you and John were carrying on about whether or not it was okay to rob a blind parson. She's... good with people, Sherlock. You have to admit."

"I would expect her to be competent at her job," Sherlock groaned. "She and Molly are on their way, aren't they."

John, who had received a phone call from his wife that morning, suddenly looked away to the horizon.

"Oh, for _God's sake._ When?"

* * *

By the time Melissa and Molly pulled into the motel carpark an hour later, Sherlock's mood had not improved by one degree. And it was especially not helped by the fact that both John and Lestrade looked _pleased to see them._

"What the hell is this?" he demanded, mainly addressing the warm greeting John had just given his wife. "I'm conducting a serious investigation into a serious crime, not facilitating some sort of ... romantic weekend...!"

"Trust me." John had his arm around Molly's waist. "If this was my idea of a romantic weekend, three of you wouldn't be here."

"We _were_ going to bring you the skull to keep you company," Melissa told Sherlock. "Molly seemed to think it would be awkward if we were pulled over by the police on a routine check and found with a real human skull in the car. She's sensible like that. Anyway, we're actually here to work, and by work I mean _work_ , not the other kind of work, though there may be some of that too, though obviously not for you -"

"Mel," Lestrade reined her in quietly. He was good for Melissa giving Sherlock as much as he'd ever given anyone else, but she did occasionally cross the line a little.

"Greg said something about this being a cult."

"And he's wrong about that," Sherlock countered her with great pleasure.

"Okay, then tell us, O wise one. We won't be of much use to your investigation unless you give us an idea what's going on."

 _Your investigation._ Lestrade smiled a little to himself. He had to hand it to Melissa. She really knew what she was doing.

* * *

"All right. Everyone pay attention, because I am _not_ slowing down or using small words," Sherlock growled. The five of them were now crowded around in his hotel room; this had only served to make him more irritated, since there wasn't room for everyone to sit down and John had Molly on his lap. To Sherlock's way of thinking, this was plain proof that John's mind clearly wasn't on the job.

Sherlock had several pieces of paper tacked up on the wall and had brought out a black marker. "This investigation has been obscured and obfuscated from the start. And before we go anywhere or do anything more, we need to sift through what's important - _really important -_ and what has been the smoke and mirrors of the case. To begin, we can forget about George and his mutilated livestock."

He scrawled _mutilations_ on one of the pieces of paper, then lifted it from its spot on the wall and moved it over to the left.

Lestrade, who was standing in one corner where he could see Sherlock's notes, blinked. "Isn't that why we're all here in the first place?"

"No. It's what _brought_ us here in the first place... well, most of us." He glanced at Melissa. "And it's not worth my time, and never was."

"But you said-"

" _Not_ George, _not_ a cult, _not_ a single person. Who, logically, is left, Lestrade? Use your brain."

He paused, waiting. Lestrade looked unsure of himself for a few seconds, puzzling it out with grit teeth. Sherlock was not going to answer this one for him. "A gang...?" he hesitated.

Sherlock nodded.

"Great Wyrley have a lot of gangs, does it?"

"It's a ridiculous myth that one must be urban to be in a gang, Lestrade, and if the police would move away from that kind of stereotyping they might solve crimes a lot quicker," Sherlock said witheringly. "John pointed out two things about the crimes- they were cleanly done, and they were brutal. A group of boys aged between fourteen and seventeen fits that profile perfectly. Strong enough to wield knives, emotionally weak enough to find that sort of thing satisfying."

"Like some sort of coming-of-age ritual." This was Melissa again.

"Something like that, I imagine. Let's see who's man enough to wield the knife. You get a group encouraging one another and the result is something like what was found in the lane that day. I'm sure if we made some enquiries about students at one of the local high schools this afternoon, we'd easily find a group that fit the bill. And it never had anything to do with George Edalji. Until, of course, someone decided to make it so..."

He scrawled _Dennis James_ on another piece of paper, but did not move it.

"The letters accused George of the mutilations," John spoke up. "Did Dennis James write them?"

"Without having seen them, I'd say almost certainly. But Caroline Edalji said something very interesting to me, the first day she came to Baker Street. She said that the mutilations had started the summer before - so, eight months ago - and that whoever had been writing those letters had been doing so for _two years_. She said that originally the letters were originally accusing Shapuriji Edalji of incest with his niece, Hannah. Then Shapuriji went blind, and the focus of the letters shifted. Bit odd, don't you think, that the writer couldn't even decide who to target? Which leads me to the conclusion that while petty, bitter Dennis James may have thrown insults to anyone and everyone in those lovely little notes, there was one person that the poison pen letters mentioned that Caroline didn't even mention to me."

He scribbled another name.

_Sarah._

He put this one to the far right. "Sarah Edalji," he said with satisfaction. " _This_ is who it's all about. Forget everything else. The Edalji family are desperately trying to hide this girl."

"You think they know where she is?" Lestrade asked him.

"Of _course_ they know where she is. Her mother tried to pretend she didn't exist when she first asked for my help with George's case. She didn't tell me her name. I deduced it as the most likely Biblical female name in a family where Ruth and Hannah were already taken. Sarah's father, who said he loved her and that she was a good girl, couldn't be bothered reporting her missing. He'd report Ruth missing if she was gone for all of five minutes without permission. Then he lied to the police and sent us on a worthless but rather enlightening foray into the Red Light District of London the other day." He glanced at Melissa, but this was a misfire. If anything, she simply looked amused at the idea of her lover in such a place.

"So the focus of the letters was Sarah, then," she commented. Sherlock nodded. "But she's only been missing since January."

"Dennis James knew something- knows something. And he's known it for a long time- two years. Or at least, he's got the Edalji family believing he does, which is the same thing in terms of leverage. Never underestimate the power of a well-executed bluff. That got them scared, all right. Caroline didn't mention any letters. Another thing I had to deduce. And whenever I've asked for them, people have changed the subject or brushed it off. Hence the need to... obtain them by other means..."

John rolled his eyes. "Or you _could_ just ask Dennis James what he knows."

"I don't trust him. He's a liar with a poor emotional memory. The letters themselves won't lie or send us on any wild-goose chases."

"But you said the focus of the letters must be Sarah," Molly broke in. "so if Dennis James was angry at Sarah about something, why send _George_ to prison?"

"I don't know." Sherlock glanced at Lestrade for a second. "And that's why it would be incredibly useful if we could interview anyone in the area who might know the Edalji family or have an idea of what they might be hiding."

* * *

It was evening, and the trees lining each side of the courtyard were casting trembling shadows across the white gravel, when Molly and Melissa returned to the motel from their mission. Molly was quiet as usual, and seemed tired, but Melissa was in high spirits.

"So we found out quite a lot," she told them cheerily, without even waiting to shut the car door. "The Edalji children were educated at home, all five of them, all the way through school."

"So it _was_ sort of like a cult," John remarked. "The kids were isolated from everyone else."

"Not entirely. The barman at the Swan told me that George and Jonah played cricket when they were teenagers, but that Shapuriji and Caroline pulled Malachi off the team. Some dispute with the coach about his abilities, it seems. He went on to learn the piano instead, or something. But anyway, it wasn't all doom and gloom. It's not like people spat on them or anything, they at least got on with the other boys."

"And the girls?"

"Ruth wouldn't say boo to a goose, but apparently Sarah had a few things to say for herself."

"Oh?"

"Clashed with both parents, often. Apparently she was the old man's favourite, though. Youngest by six years. I believe the guy near the cigarette machine said "accident." Makes sense. The woman in the post office says Caroline's sixty-two and her husband's seventy, so if Sarah's twenty..." she shrugged. "The woman in the post office also told me that the Stonehams were from up north somewhere- country gentry. Caroline was a bit of a wild girl herself in the sixties, and the whole family runs on her say-so. The only person who doesn't jump when Caroline says so is Rebecca, and that's because Rebecca is a bitch. Not my words, by the way." She glanced at Molly.

"Not mine, either," Molly protested mildly. "The woman in the hairdresser's across the street from the Swan told me that." Molly, not being suitable criteria for trawling pubs for drunk people to chat up, had had to make do. In the process, she'd sacrified two inches of her hair. "So... and that was the other thing we kept coming across. Everyone says that Sarah left of her own accord. But I couldn't find anyone who had any idea where she was, or could remember her leaving."

"Did anyone have an idea of why she'd left?"

"Well," Melissa spoke up again. "Nothing terribly enlightening. When I was in Radio World trying things I had no intention of buying, there was some debate about whether she'd run off with someone her parents didn't approve of, or got herself 'preg'- not my expression either, thank you."

"Oh." Lestrade spoke for the first time. "And out of curiosity, were you wearing _that_ in Radio World?"

Melissa looked down at herself innocently. It _was_ true that she was wearing a scoop-necked blouse and a short skirt with high boots.

"Yes, as it happens," she said. "Though clearly not for the benefit of those in Radio World. Went to both pubs in town."

"You weren't wearing that when you left here."

"Of course I wasn't. We went to the Wesleyan _church_ first. I'm sure Sherlock would agree that if you go into battle, you need to wear the right armour."

"Melissa," Lestrade said quietly, "can we talk? Our room?"

She shrugged and went with him. He led her into the room, shut the door behind him, and immediately demanded, "what do you think this is, Melissa?"

"I sort of assumed you _meant_ it when you said DC Brennan was to go undercover," she retorted.

"Yeah, I said undercover, not _undressed_." He was looking her up and down, and although he sounded disdainful, Melissa could see that he couldn't quite hide a few _other_ strong feelings about what she was wearing.

"Do you have any better ideas on how to get a bunch of drunk young men's attention? You've seen me in less, so I don't know why you're suddenly-"

"You know there's a difference between me seeing you... like that... and half the men in town seeing you in that." He put his face in his hands for a few seconds. "Mel, can you seriously not see what the problem is here?"

"The problem appears to be that you want to dictate the way I dress. I'm not your daughter," she said stiffly.

"No, but I swear, sometimes she _acts_ older than you do."

Melissa paused, then nodded. "Oh. So we're back to your mid-life crisis again. I'm getting sort of bored of this topic, Greg. You being insecure about your age and about your bitch ex-wife doesn't mean I need to dress like a nun."

"Kindly remember that Julie is the mother of my children," he told her in a low voice. "How about you just dress _normally?"_

"Kindly remember that you owe Julie absolutely no favours, and she wouldn't speak so kindly about _you_ , given the chance," she responded. "And this _is_ normal dress for a girl in her twenties to be wearing out for a few drinks. If you want to date someone who dresses like she's fifty, then _date a fifty-year-old._ If you're going to be with me, you need to accept that I'm young and want to act that way!"

"Yeah, well, if you really want to-"

Lestrade cut himself off as abruptly as if he'd been extinguished, but he'd already said far too much. Melissa looked at him for a few moments, examining that shamefaced look.

"Oh, of course," she said quietly. "That's why you don't want to get married."

"I didn't say that." He was just as quiet. "But when you pull stuff like this, I've got to tell you that it doesn't give me much confidence that you really _want_ to get married."

"What possible other reason do you have for me putting up with you shooting me down in flames, the way you did the other week?"

"I never shot you down in flames," he protested. "I said I wasn't ready."

"And by that, you clearly meant 'you need to grow up and be a suitable second mother for my children.' Greg, they've already _got_ a mother. They don't need another one. And I don't think there's anything wrong with me saying I'd be a terrible mother to a seventeen-year-old girl, because I was eleven years old when she was born."

"Thanks for that reminder."

"What's wrong with it? Everyone's well over-age here. Don't be such a martyr. We're not handcuffed to each other. I assume you're still with me because you want to be. I'm still here because _I want to be with you._ And me applying a bit of girly-leverage to get some guys to tell me what I need to know for an investigation isn't going to change that."

Lestrade was silent for half a minute. His gaze roamed the carpet, as if he'd lost something.

"Right," he finally said. "Right, well, um. Does that mean you can put up with me enough to go to Rebecca Edalji's birthday party with me tomorrow night?"

"Darling, _you_ won't be attending anyone's birthday party tomorrow night. Nor will I. We have a date in London with a charming young actor, remember?"

Matthew's play. The one his father had swore he'd move worlds to be at.

_Shit._


	14. Shameful Ways

"At the risk of nagging," John commented to Sherlock, who was just then straightening the sleeves of his jacket, "it wouldn't kill you to actually eat something tonight."

"Hmm?" was the vague response.

"Food. You know, source of calories. Units of energy? Helps you not die?"

"You know I don't eat when I'm working."

"Yeah, I want you to make an exception this time." John glanced across at him. "It's been the better part of a week, and you're starting to look awful."

It was half-past six, and they were making last-minute preparations for Rebecca Edalji's birthday party. Sherlock had not known about Matthew's play and the departure of Lestrade and Melissa either; that had put a spanner in the works, and called for a last-minute conference with John on the stealing of the letters. Molly would also be attending, partly to participate in the ruse and partly because Sherlock had a feeling that John might insist on it anyway. She was in John's room next door, awkwardly putting makeup on.

John had long since accepted that he couldn't force Sherlock to eat every single day. The man's metabolism had probably been rewired from years of intermittent fasting, and forcing him to eat three square meals a day might actually do him more harm than good. Still, evidence to the contrary wasn't going to convince him that any flesh-and-blood human could or should go for a week subsisting on absolutely nothing but coffee. When Sherlock started to get that pinched, soapy-white look about him, it was time to step in. More than once, he'd wondered if Mycroft had ever done the same while he and Sherlock had been living in Australia.

"Eating's not important." Sherlock sounded annoyed. "Now listen. Once I leave, you make sure everyone stays where they are. I calculate it's going to take me at least half an hour to find those letters, including travel time."

"Just how am I meant to keep everyone there? I won't even know anyone."

"I don't care how it's done," was the impatient answer. "I need you to buy me time, John."

"I really don't like this, Sherlock. With Greg back in London and Mycroft in Africa, you might end up spending time in a holding cell. And I don't have the money for bail."

"Which is precisely why you need to ensure that I _don't_ get caught."

* * *

"So what is this, anyway, Shakespeare?" Lestrade, sitting stiffly in his theatre seat, was looking doubtfully at the playbill in his hand. He'd noted with some pride that Matthew was billed fourth, as some character known only as The Cardinal. Odd that he seemed to not have a name for his character, but then the main character was only known as _The Duchess,_ so there was that. Interesting poster art. So _that_ was what Matthew had done with the new gory painting he'd been working on since January. Abstractism, or something. Greg Lestrade was, as his girlfriend constantly bemoaned, a complete philistine.

"John Webster." Melissa leaned over to point the name out on the playbill.

"Should I know who that is?"

"Wouldn't have killed you to have found out beforehand," she remarked calmly. She was just then a little distracted, as she always was when Julie was in the nearby vicinity. Rarely did things spill over into open unpleasantness, but Melissa was never going to be Julie's friend. Julie had brought Hayley with her, and that had resulted in no small shuffle so that friends could be kept together, and enemies apart. Melissa had Lestrade on her right and Hayley on her left, with Julie sitting very grudgingly on the other side of her daughter. Lestrade wondered for a second where Mark was. Julie had been dating Mark Farrow for six months; on the rare occasions where the two men had met, Lestrade suspected that Julie enjoyed it. His absence here was conspicuous, and she was clearly not comfortable without him.

Lestrade was uncomfortable with the situation regardless of how it was spliced. He was used to the sorts of jackets and trousers he wore to work nearly every day, but an actual suit was a rarity for him, and a night at the theatre was... well. He'd promised Matthew he'd be at _this_ performance.

"How long's this go for?" he asked, flipping through the playbill.

"Shhh," Melissa murmured. "It doesn't matter. You'll watch it, and you'll love it."

* * *

Sherlock had unconsciously been expecting Rebecca to be like Ruth or Hannah- tall and slim, probably dark-haired. The young woman having her 27th birthday honoured was decidedly dumpy, with a frizzy mass of strawberry-blonde curls and a face speckled like a plover's egg. Nor did Rebecca strike him as the "bitch" Molly had had her reported as. Despite her cousin Hannah showing up with an unexpected date, she took it all in her stride and welcomed both of them warmly, going so far as to kiss Hannah on the cheek.

Sherlock, watching, noted that Hannah was ambivalent about that. But she went through the motions.

"I'm so glad you could make it," Rebecca gushed at Hannah. "Come in, come in. I'm sorry, I don't think I've met your friends...?"

This, presumably, extended to John and to Molly, though she had barely glanced at where they were hesitating behind and was solely focused on Sherlock.

"No, I suppose you haven't," was the pleasant response. "This is Sherlock Holmes, and John and Molly Watson..."

John and Molly meant little to nothing to Rebecca, and she barely registered their names. She had paused, though, at _Sherlock Holmes,_ and the hand she'd held out in greeting was suspended between them.

"You're the detective," she said simply. Sherlock nodded, and Rebecca paused again, registering this. She glanced at Hannah. No words passed between the two women, but the subtext was crystal clear: _you brought a detective to my birthday?_

At his side, Sherlock felt, rather than saw, Hannah draw herself up into a sort of stiff defiance. Rebecca was evidently deciding what to do. Finally, she shook herself.

"I'm sorry, I suppose I wasn't expecting Hannah to bring you." She shook Sherlock's hand, properly and enthusiastically. "But you and your friends are certainly welcome... I'm sorry, I didn't catch your names...?"

John hurriedly introduced himself and his wife again, slightly embarrassed to be there. After all, he didn't know any of these people, and hadn't strictly been invited - little did Rebecca know that they were really only there as a decoy. She welcomed them with as much grace and charm as possible, though, and led them through the house and out into a paved courtyard where a long table had been set up with food and drinks.

They were the last to arrive. Malachi, who had been sitting at the head of the table, rose to greet them, and find seats for all; these were now in short supply. Shapuriji was sitting at the other end of the table, with Caroline at one side and Ruth on the other; Jonah was present, but as if in defiance, he was not sitting at the table at all but perched on the nearby garden wall. John immediately noted his scowl.

"Evening," Malachi said warmly - too warmly, as if he was trying to sell the newcomers a used car.

It was never spoken outright, but John was once again struck with the usual attitude he received when he accompanied Sherlock on a case: _Sherlock Holmes I know, but who are you?_ Awkward introductions, all over again. John noted that Molly's hand was sticky in his, and showed her into the nearest chair. Sherlock was just deciding, no doubt, where the most strategic place to sit would be.

"Well, you're all welcome, anyway," Malachi said, again in that false cheer. "Plenty of everything to go around. I've got some beer in the fridge inside if you want it."

Sherlock declined at the same time that John accepted, and Rebecca asked Molly if she wanted some lemonade, in tones that meant it was obvious to everyone why _she_ wouldn't want any beer right now. Molly immediately flushed, made worse when Rebecca tactfully asked when she was due, and Sherlock suddenly looked a little alarmed when Hannah took the seat next to him at the table, bringing her chair rather close.

He glanced across the table at John, who raised his eyebrows slightly, as if to remind him that it was only to be expected that your date might want to sit next to you. Malachi came back out of the house with beer for both John and Sherlock, who had asked for water. He threw an open bag of crisps in front of the detective.

John shot Sherlock another look; Sherlock responded by reluctantly snaking a hand into the bag of crisps. Food may have been boring to him that week, but etiquette, he'd realised, was important.

"It's good to see you again, Mr. Holmes," Caroline spoke from her husband's side, but her tone indicated that she was anything but pleased to see him. Clearly, one Miss Hannah Stoneham was due to be read the riot act sometime later that evening. "What happened to your friend, the one you brought to church with you on Sunday?"

"Urgent business in London," Sherlock bluffed with a smile.

"I see," she said. "And how is George's case coming along?"

"Mum," Jonah hissed at her, speaking for the first time since the arrival of the guests. "Now, of all times!"

"Jonah, no." Shapuriji spoke in low, gentle tones. Immediately, Jonah checked himself and sighed.

"I'm sorry. I just meant that we're supposed to be here for Bec's birthday. Wouldn't hurt Mum to shut up about _that_ for five minutes!"

An awkward silence for a few seconds. Rebecca was the first to recover. "So, you're a doctor, then?" she asked John. "Are you a GP?"

"Yeah, um, I've worked in general practice," John offered courteously, clearing his throat. "Some emergency care work- trauma surgery."

"Really? Wow, that sounds interesting. Where do you work now?"

Rebecca couldn't have possibly known that John _didn't_ work now, but it wasn't making the atmosphere at her own birthday gathering any less awkward.

* * *

" _Damn her! That body of hers..."_

Well, hell. This play was certainly getting intense. So far as Lestrade could make things out (and he was the first to admit what that amounted to: not particularly well), this Ferdinand was up in arms about his sister having married/bred with some guy named Antonio. But that wasn't all. While most of the words were sailing right over Lestrade's head and he was really only paying attention to the parts where his son appeared (not enough of those, in his opinion), it wasn't hard for him to grasp the gist of Ferdinand: he was a creep.

Lestrade hadn't been overly impressed when _his_ sister Lorraine had married Kevin Taphouse twenty-nine years before. Kevin was a work-shy layabout and it had taken Lorraine nine years and two kids to figure it out. Never, at any point, had he considered killing off Kevin, Lorraine, or little Jessica and Brooke over it all, though. Nope, that was excessive. That sort of thing made you a psychopath like Ferdinand who, from what Lestrade could glean, was now planning on going all stab-happy on Duchess, Shitkicker and spawn.

He had to admit, in the depths of his non-poetic soul, that it was all _interesting,_ if nothing else. He had hopes that maybe the Duchess would be able to get out of this one. But considering the play was billed as the _Tragedy of the Duchess of Malfi,_ he reflected that perhaps he shouldn't be hoping too hard for that one.

* * *

"Oh, I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I'm such a clumsy _idiot_ sometimes..."

While his motives may have been cloudy, Sherlock had saved John the agony of trying to explain that he was on indefinite leave while recovering from a gunshot wound. John, across the table and now on his feet to avoid the cascade of beer flowing across the table and onto the paving, sighed. Trust Sherlock to find an excuse like _this_ to leave the party. He'd just deliberately knocked the better part of a pint of beer into his own lap, and was now flailing in glorious ineptitude at the beer still splashing onto his knees.

"Never mind," John commented calmly. "These things happen. Did it miss you?"

Sherlock pulled out a tissue. It was a little like trying to suck up a river with a towel, though; he was absolutely soaking, as he'd no doubt intended to be.

"No," he all but wailed. "No, it most certainly did _not_ miss me."

"You ought to be more careful, Mr. Holmes," Jonah commented, but it was clearly meant kindly. He'd grasped at a handful of napkins that had been stacked on the table and handed them over to him. "Though I'm not one to talk. Give me an expensive shirt, and I'll make a mess of it inside of two days, as my mother can and probably will tell you. Did the glass break?"

"No, I don't think so..."

"Oh, no," Hannah exclaimed. She'd just returned from a trip into the house and seen carnage. "How did that happen?"

"I'm sorry, I'm just clumsy." Sherlock was still dabbing ineffectually at his trousers. "I hope it didn't splash on anyone else. Do you think it would it be all right if I went back to the motel to change? I'll come back-"

"Yes, yes of course." Hannah was looking at him carefully, and even John noted it. He did not know what it meant, however- that Hannah had seen Sherlock as the detective who had told her Ryan didn't love her, and that she simply wasn't buying him as the clumsy sod who spilled beer everywhere and then got into a flap about it.

"I'm sorry, all this mess..."

* * *

"What do you think so far?"

Interval; Melissa had just come back from the women's toilets to declare there was a queue "roughly the length of Hadrian's Wall". Lestrade wasn't surprised. To his way of thinking, if a grown-up couldn't hold their bladder the whole way through a play, then it was too bloody long by half.

"I think Matthew's doing great," was his response. Melissa smiled at him.

"You haven't the faintest clue what's happening on stage, have you."

"Hey, I'm not that tragic," he protested mildly. "I _do_ understand it, thanks. Duchess has got herself a second husband that her brothers don't like, and had three of his kids. They're plotting up murder. The one who's not Matthew is more than a bit insane."

That was a tolerable summation of the plot, at least.

"I kind of think that the one Matthew's playing is a few sandwiches short of a picnic, too. He's doing well up there," Melissa sounded almost parentally proud of "Spawn." "Certainly is a kid of many talents. Where's he get that from?"

"Not me," was the wry answer. And it was certainly not false modesty; neither the Lestrade nor Clarke sides of the family were known for any artistic prowess running through them, so Matthew's ability to turn anything he touched to art was a genuine anomaly. Good thing, his father had reflected more than once, that he was clearly his father's child, because otherwise people might wonder.

The intermission light had just gone out; a voice on the loudspeaker announced the second half of the play was commencing, and cordially invited patrons to shuffle back to their seats. With a sigh, Lestrade resigned himself to more flowery language and convoluted plotting. He meant to ask Matthew later if he could understand what all of his lines even _meant._

* * *

The primary talents of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were his towering intellect and almost superhuman powers of observation. But there were other skills that served him well, and one of them was that he could climb like a spider.

His trousers were still soaked through with beer. There hadn't been time to change, as he'd claimed he would, and he knew he'd have to be careful not to leave traces of the spill - or the scent of it - anywhere in the house. He stood for a second behind the dark verge, hidden from the road and looking up at the darkened windows of the parsonage. The one he was standing beneath was, he felt sure, the master bedroom; and that would be the most likely place Shapuriji and Caroline would hide letters they didn't want anyone else to see.

He'd spoken confidently to Caroline nearly a week before. Nobody _ever_ throws out poison pens. But Sherlock had been wrong about things before- much as he hated to admit it- and his primary hope was that blurting that out hadn't provoked Caroline to go home and destroy them immediately. He had not at the time realised just how crucial those letters would be to the case.

_Stupid._

Locating both the window he needed and a foothold, he launched at the wall and scrabbled his way up to the second storey. Almost hanging from the windowsill with one arm and trying to prise the window open with the other, there was nothing he could do when he caught a glimpse of movement in the verge below. One stomach-churning second, and then he realised.

"What the hell are _you_ doing here?!" he hissed.

"Well what kind of a genius are you, to go housebreaking without a lookout?!" was John's biting response. He was standing upright and still, as if on sentry, looking out toward the road. "Hurry up and get this over with. They could be home any minute. Things are already winding up at the house. Molly's gone back to the hotel."

Already? _Fantastic_ birthday Rebecca was having.

"I told you to keep everyone there and made sure they didn't leave!"

"I'm not forcing Molly to stay at a party when she-"

"Oh, well _go back to her then._ I don't need a lookout!"

"You send me away and I'm calling the police to report a burglary in progress at the Great Wyrley parsonage, Sherlock. Just try it and see if I'm kidding."

Sherlock, still scrabbling with the window, knew that he was not in a position to really argue with John just then. The latch finally gave way and the French-style window gave way inward; he hauled himself nimbly up and through the space feet-first.

Any light could be seen from the main road. Fortunately, there was enough moonshine and glow from the streetlamps for him to be able to find his way through the dark bedroom without one. Neat and clean; quite a large room and a large bed. A glance told him: Caroline's side of the bed would be more likely than Shapuriji's. A blind man wouldn't hoard letters he couldn't see. And Caroline was protective. Her side of the bed was clearly the one closest to the door. Private things were usually, or so Sherlock had found, kept in the third of four drawers in a beside table. He darted for Caroline's and drew it out completely, rifling through the paper contents with both hands. John had been right. There was no time to lose.

* * *

And suddenly... _werewolves...?_

So far as Lestrade understood it. Werewolves, quite out of nowhere- turns out that Ferdinand was more of a nutter than expected. At least Matthew's character seemed to be still alive, but considering that pretty much _everyone_ was dead - including two small children, which had genuinely shocked him - the bad Cardinal's prospects really weren't looking too good just then.

Despite the staying power of his son's character and the interesting-but-confusing development of the unhinged Ferdinand thinking he was a werewolf and digging up corpses, Lestrade had become more and more disconnected with the play as time went on. The actors - even Matthew - were distracting him; he was trying to think. Something was troubling him, and his mind was back in Staffordshire.

_Damn her! That body of hers..._

Ferdinand hadn't wanted to kill the Duchess _just_ because the man she married was a bit low-born, Lestrade was sure of it. And why did that make him think of...?

* * *

_I know why Sarah left and don't think I won't tell everyone what filth goes on under your roof and in the church. You turn your head away when your children pollute the house of God with-_

Before Sherlock could register the following paragraph properly, there was a shrill whistle from the garden below. John Watson was the only person Sherlock knew who would give a signal like that, and it was justified ten seconds later by the crunch of tyres on the front drive and the bounce of headlights that suddenly flooded into the room.

By this time Sherlock was on his knees beside the bedside table, away from the beam of the car headlights and hurrying to replace the letters in the order he'd found them. His instinct was to take cover in the wardrobe, but deduction told him: Caroline had been wearing a coat at Rebecca's party, and her neat bedroom was testament to the likelihood that she would put it back in the wardrobe the second she entered the bedroom.

The headlights dimmed; then a car door slammed. Caroline's voice floated up to him.

Through the window that he had stupidly left open.

He could hear it downstairs now: footsteps along the path. Caroline's was heavy and purposeful, her husband's unsteady and slower. A key in a lock, and then the brief crack of the front door giving way and opening. Just in time he darted across, closed the window as silently as possible, and scrambled for the only place available to him to hide. Under the bed.

* * *

Well, the ordeal of the party was over, even though it had come to a rather undramatic conclusion.

Molly was satisfied that she'd done the best she could that evening, under trying circumstances, such as not really knowing what was going on, and the difficulty she'd always had with strangers. It was exhausting, trying to think of all the right things to say, trying to avoid all the _wrong_ things to say.

If it came down to it, she certainly hadn't been the one to cause any drama that night, and everyone in the Edalji family had been quite kind to her at the party, even when she'd claimed a headache - not quite a lie - and left early. John had dropped her off at the hotel, then rushed off in a cab to do something for Sherlock. She wasn't sure what. Coherent details weren't always John's strong point. But she hoped it wasn't overly dangerous, since she knew John's gun was in the drawer at home.

There was really no point in fretting, she concluded. This wasn't even close to the usual bombs and guns and maniacs - the sort of business Sherlock and John thrived on.

She had been back at the hotel for forty minutes and had been flipping television channels idly, looking for something to amuse herself with. She was too tired to make the effort of socialising, but it was hardly turning-in time yet, all the same. She was just considering whether to have a shower and get ready for bed when there was a knock at the door, and then a sort of scrabbling noise.

She startled - and then real concern flooded her. Who was _that?_ John had a key. And if Sherlock was returning to the motel without John...

Another urgent knock, which galvanised her into action. She got up. "I'm coming," she called softly. "I'm coming, just a minute..."

She slid the security chain across and opened the door a crack, peeking out; when she saw who it was, she scrambled to unlatch the chain and quickly opened the door in full.

"Are you Mrs. Watson? The doctor's wife?"

A thin little voice, high like a child's, with an added lift of urgency and fear. Before Molly, astonished, could respond, the dark-haired, gaunt girl wobbling on the doorstep tumbled forward into her arms.

It was Sarah Edalji.


	15. Sarah

"Sherlock, you will shut up and let _me_ do this, okay?"

They were in the antechamber to the interview room at Stafford Prison, awaiting the arrival of George Edalji; it was five to nine the following morning, and the verge of visiting hours. It was John who had spoken, and in tones that Sherlock knew not to ignore or brush aside.

"I hardly think you're as equipped with all the information-"

"He doesn't need information. We need it from him."

Lestrade, who had arrived at half past two that morning after one marathon drive back to Cannock, passed his hand over his face blearily. "God, what a mess," he muttered. He'd been up all night and dealing with the local force since six. Judging from his expression, that had been an ordeal in and of itself. Notable highlights of the night, aside from the sudden and dramatic reappearance of Sarah Edalji, included Caroline Edalji's report of a mysterious break-in at Great Wyrley parsonage, and a panicked phone call from Ruth Edalji, who could only get out this rather confusing phrase: _Sarah's gone missing._

"Have they made any arrests yet?" John asked him tensely.

"Not yet."

"Why not?"

"Because we need to hold back and work this out before we start arresting people left right and centre, John," was the patient response. "I know you're out for blood, but- maybe _I_ should do the talking, here-" he broke off as the door opened and a warden ushered them in to where George Edalji was waiting. "Look, just... go easy, to begin with. We don't know how much of this George is responsible for."

"More than enough, I think," John responded in contempt.

The prisoner was shown into the room. This visit was not by prior appointment, and he looked bewildered at seeing all three men so unexpectedly. He was shown into a seat and John took the one opposite; both Sherlock and Lestrade remained standing, which seemed to unnerve him. He kept glancing from one to the other.

"Good morning," he said quietly. "Has something happened?"

A pause. Sherlock glanced impatiently at John, who fidgeted nervously for a few seconds before he cleared his throat and spoke.

"We've found Sarah, George."

George's pupils bloomed, and he swallowed. "Where is she?"

"I'm sorry, I can't tell you that. Not while there's a criminal investigation underway."

"A criminal-"

"I'm afraid there's been a lot of trouble," John went on evenly, as if this had been rehearsed. "But we can tell you she's in hospital- no, no, it's all right-" George had just choked a little. "She's all right. Not feeling the greatest, but they think she might be out in a few days, and my wife's been with her." He was now fumbling with his phone. "She did send something along for me to show you, though..."

He held the phone out to George, who took it in his shaking hand. He brought it close to his dark, feeble eyes and stared at it for nearly half a minute in silence.

"Her name is Miriam Grace Edalji," John told him quietly. "She was born at twenty past five this morning. And she's your daughter, isn't she?"

George was still looking at the photograph in his hand, and made no sign that he had heard or understood John's words. Suddenly he took an abrupt, sharp breath, as if it had finally sunk in.

"You... you have the wrong idea about this," he faltered. "You don't understand..."

"No," was John's cold response. "No, I _don't_ understand, I'm afraid. And I've never been more happy in my life to not understand something."

* * *

"You don't understand, Mrs. Watson."

Molly had been with Sarah Edalji all night, save a two-hour nap after all the drama was over. She had to admit that she really didn't understand at all. But the girl in the bed beside her looked so wretched and small and _alone_ that she didn't have the heart to condemn her. She needed help. And then there was the lovely little baby, all chubby cheeks and wrinkly hands and damp black hair, wrapped up asleep in her mother's arms...

Sarah smiled down at her newborn, a little sadly. "So I suppose now everyone will ask me to look at her- and say I wish she never existed," she said softly.

"I won't ask you to do that."

"I know, Mrs. Watson."

"Molly."

"Molly. When I heard you and your husband at the party, I didn't know your voices and I went out to the landing and hid behind a door to see who it was... and you looked like such nice people. And then I heard Rebecca ask when you were due, and I thought that because you were having a baby too, you might understand..."

"So you got out through the laundry door..."

At least, Molly was able to console herself, at least the poor girl hadn't walked back to the hotel. She'd arrived in an unpaid-for cab.

"I heard you mention where you were staying when you said you had a headache and wanted to leave." Sarah shifted the baby in her arms, wincing slightly. There was a drip taped to her left hand. "I didn't know what else to do... all I could think of was that she might... be born in the bathroom. And that they might take her away... or that they might..."

Molly swallowed.

"Oh, I wasn't locked up," she explained wearily. "It wasn't... they didn't lock doors... didn't need to, anyway. I wasn't keen on parading myself about, if I'm honest, especially since we didn't know if Dennis James would tell anyone who the father really was."

"He found out?"

Sarah smiled, a little tearfully. "We weren't stupid enough to... do that... in the house. So we'd go to the vestry. Dennis James caught us there one night nearly two years ago. We told him it was all a mistake and he had it wrong- but that was when the letters started. We... weren't discreet enough. Love _isn't_ discreet, I guess."

Molly flinched. Love was... well. This wasn't _love_ , she was sure, no matter how much Sarah might believe it. Brainwashing, or some other perverse thing... "And in January, you found out you were going to have a baby..."

"Oh, no." Sarah shook her head. "That's when my _parents_ found out. I'd been a bit indiscreet there, too. George and I had known about it for months before _that_..."

* * *

"Is the baby... is she all right?"

"Hard to say," was John's blunt response. Lestrade, holding his tongue for the time being, couldn't remember the last time he'd heard John use tones like that. "She's a few weeks early, but luckily none the worse for it. My wife says the usual newborn tests all came back normal, so you can be grateful for that, at least. And that's another thing. Not _once_ did Sarah have any kind of medical treatment or care throughout her whole pregnancy. From what I'm told, the great plan was for her to have your child on the bathroom floor. Have you got _any idea_ the sort of things that could have gone wrong? Do you know how many Afghani women and their babies bloody _die_ because -"

"That wasn't me, Dr. Watson! That wasn't my idea at all!"

"Oh, don't give me that, you are _all_ to blame. You say you _love_ Sarah? You let your parents and brother lock her up for four months, denying her access to money and medical care, because -"

"She wasn't locked up -"

"- Because you couldn't _man_ _up_ and say you'd made a mistake, so you left _her_ to take the fall. You'd have got away with it, too- until a bunch of kids from the local school decided to have some sick little ritual in Jones' Lane, and Dennis James saw a way to pin you up where you couldn't just make it _Sarah's_ problem. Is this how you usually treat people you love? Because if so, I think that's the most pathetic thing I've ever heard."

"John," Lestrade muttered. "Go for a walk."

"What-?"

"Get some coffee."

John paused, looking up to see if Lestrade really meant it. Seeing that he was serious, he exhaled and got up. Lestrade noted how hard he gripped the back of his chair as he did so; he was making a monumental effort to not lash out at the man sitting across the table. The door was heavy and self-closing, designed to be impossible to slam. John nearly succeeded. As soon as the door swung to behind him, Sherlock slipped down into the seat that he'd vacated.

"That's why you were so cagey about where you were the night the pony was attacked." He picked up where John had left off with a vicious sort of glee. "Oh, what a bind _you_ were in. You were accused of something you didn't do, but you had no way of defending yourself against the accusations. You couldn't explain your alibi- you were nowhere near Jones' Lane that night. You were on the other side of Great Wyrley, probably having sex with your sister. Did you meet her at the house?"

"No," George said immediately.

"Ah, of course." Sherlock leaned back in his chair. "I underestimated the moral fibre of your family. They might not be a company of saints, but they certainly don't approve of incest. They weren't just hiding Sarah from the world, were they? They were trying to _separate_ you. I suspect not much gets past your brother Malachi, once he puts his mind to it. Of course, as we've recently found out, he didn't factor in his sister's determination to get to her... _lover_."

Sherlock's tones were thick with contempt. George was looking sulkily at the floor and said nothing.

"So, it was sex at a random clandestine location, then," he continued. "Not the house, and probably outdoors. How romantic- a date for Sarah and George on the last day of March."

"Sherlock," Lestrade warned.

"You walked there and back in the rain, which accounts for the state of your shoes- but of course, you didn't expect that there'd be a random attack on a pony out in Jones' Lane that night, and that the police would show up at the parsonage in the morning to confiscate your shoes. You had no answer when they asked you about them, and once you'd given no answer, you had to maintain no answer, at any cost."

George swallowed. "My father-"

"Oh yes, your father knew _exactly_ where you'd been, and why- which is why he was so anxious to give you an alibi that he had no way of verifying."

"My-"

"And oh, your mother." Sherlock chuckled. "Your mother is ambitious, if nothing else. She came to _me,_ of all men on earth, and wanted me to get you off on the mutilation charges without ever finding out the truth about Sarah. No wonder she looked the way she did when I asked her about the daughter she didn't speak to- she's so used to playing you and your father and your siblings. Except Jonah. _Jonah_ didn't approve of any of this, and he thought it was in particular poor taste that your mother would mention the case to me when they all knew that Sarah was _upstairs."_

"Mr. Holmes, I've been in here for a month," George pleaded. "I didn't know anything about-"

"Sarah was at Malachi and Rebecca's this whole time, wasn't she? Since January, when your parents finally found out that all of Dennis James' nasty little letters were actually true, and found out in the worst way possible. That's why nobody remembers Sarah leaving Wyrley- she _never left."_

"And God help all of you if I find out she was held at Malachi and Rebecca's against her will," Lestrade suddenly said in a low voice. For all of John's insistence that the girl had been locked up, this wasn't clear; Sarah had yet to give a fully coherent statement on that subject.

* * *

"I love him," Sarah blurted out simply. "And I don't mean... it's not _that_. I love him like my father loves God. Like God loves my father." She swiped at her eyes. "Do you believe in God, Molly?"

Molly shifted uncomfortably. The truth was that she didn't. Religion hadn't been part of her upbringing, though it had been part of John and Harry's; being quite ambivalent on the subject, she'd agreed to a church wedding with all the traditional flourishes. That had been her last real brush with religion, except once. On Christmas Night, when John's already-critical condition had suddenly reached breaking point, she had hunted down the hospital chaplain on duty. She'd later found out that said chaplain had been Church of England. John was Catholic. It hadn't mattered to either of them, just as she was sure it didn't matter to John. They'd prayed together a lot that night. Anything had been worth a try.

"I don't know," she finally said.

"I think God will forgive us for this... I can't call it sin. I can't call my little girl _sin_."

Molly fidgeted. She couldn't tell the proud, exhausted new mother exactly what she _really_ thought about the situation. Not just now. "Was there nobody else you could go to, Sarah?" she asked instead.

Sarah looked up at her in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"There are people who can help when this sort of thing happens." Molly was thinking of Melissa, though incest therapy wasn't exactly in Melissa's usual line of work. "People who you can talk to, professional people-"

"No," Sarah broke in sharply.

Molly waited; Sarah opened her mouth to speak, but what came out was a violent sob. The newborn in her arms stirred and woke, screwing up her little face and squeaking angrily over her mother's own crying. "I can't talk to... those people," Sarah got out. "If they find out... they're going to take away my baby..."

* * *

Church services were understandably cancelled that Sunday night. Word had already got around to interested parties; garbled variations on "Sarah Edalji had a baby", though nobody seemed to realise the connection with George Edalji. Dennis James, it seemed, was content to keep silent on the issue. It was dusk when Sherlock Holmes arrived at Hannah Stoneham's little semi-detached flat at Chesney Hay.

"Thought you'd gone home already," she greeted him tiredly, gesturing him inside with a kind of defeat. Dressed down in jeans and a ponytail; this Hannah was one he'd never seen before. He came in, but did not sit down; she looked at him in silence for a few seconds.

"Well?" she wanted to know.

"You were trying to tell me, weren't you, Hannah?" he prompted her. "Inviting me to a party where you knew Sarah was really only a few feet away. Hoping I'd find her on my own, so you couldn't be blamed for outing a family secret like that."

She broke his gaze first, glancing toward the front windows. "What's going to happen to them?" she asked.

"I don't know."

"Will they go to prison?"

"George is already in prison." Then, seeing her look, he heaved a sigh. "Given Sarah's age and position, and the history of emotional abuse in her family-" Hannah flinched- "and her child, I'd say it's likely that George will do time and Sarah will do therapy. Large amounts of it, I should hope."

"And Miriam?"

"Foster care, probably, since it's clear that Sarah's delusional- and therefore an unfit mother," was the cold response.

Hannah's mouth fell open; she hurried to cover it with her hands. "Oh, God," she whispered through her fingers. "That's so unfair."

"I'm not interested in _fair,_ Hannah," Sherlock told her as he made his way back to the door. "Don't ever confuse justice with fairness- and if your aunt has any sense at all, she'll know better in future than to consult a detective when she's hiding a crime. By the way, breaking up with Ryan was possibly the only clever thing you've done in a year."


	16. Aftermath

It was mid-June, and an unusually windy day; the windows at 221B rattled as gusts howled through the eaves and whistled through every tiny space. Sherlock was at the window with his violin- the view helped him play, he'd found- and had noted the arrival of the police car, followed by the clatter downstairs of the street door being dragged open and then slammed to against the wind. A few seconds later, Lestrade was knocking at the open flat door. He had a folder tucked under one arm.

"Okay, you've got news." Sherlock casually put the Stradivarius down on the sofa and scratched the back of his head thoughtfully with the bow.

"Yeah, there's been an update Edalji case." Lestrade put the folder down on the coffee table.

"Oh?"

"Going to trial... I thought you'd want to know as soon as possible."

"Incest?"

"Yep. The mutilations case is going through an appeal as we speak, but I don't think George will be feeling all that excited to hear about it. He'll be replacing twelve months for mutilating animals with two years for having sex with his sister, if it all goes through."

"John will be thrilled," Sherlock commented dryly. "They're prosecuting both of them?"

"In theory. Mel says there's pretty much no chance at all that Sarah will do time, not when you consider her age, and the kid, and everything."

Sherlock was silent for a few seconds. Yes, well, in _theory_ James Moriarty wasn't going to get acquitted for something he was caught red-handed doing either... "So she still has custody of the baby?"

"Supervised custody- she's in assisted living. They're keeping an eye on her... too early to call what's going to happen there, especially if they're both convicted. Not sure about the details, but it seems she's doing an okay job with the baby, anyway."

Sherlock, lost in thought, turned to the window again. Lestrade sat down on the sofa and reached out for the file, flipping through it.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"Hmm?" Sherlock turned back to him abruptly. "What for?"

"You really wanted George to be innocent, didn't you."

"He _is_ innocent." Sherlock put the violin bow down on a pile of newspapers on the table. "He's innocent of the crime he as originally accused and convicted of, and I proved that successfully enough that they are re-ordering a trial. Though I'm not surprised that Caroline Edalji was far from thankful about it."

"The justice system doesn't always work." Lestrade was not to be put off from his point. "People get let off when they should do time, and people... well, sometimes they get convicted of things they didn't do. The system's run by _people_ , Sherlock."

"Stupid people, apparently."

"You sound so surprised about that." Lestrade sighed and got up. "Anyway, look, it all came off as well as it possibly could. Don't let it get to you."

"I'm not letting it get to me," Sherlock murmured in protest. "I'm fine. I feel fine."

He reached over to pick up the violin again, then reached down for the bow. The violin was not Lestrade's instrument-of-choice to listen to for long periods of time; he knew this for the cue it was, and quickly took himself away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. As disclaimed before, this is based on a real case and many details are as original, such as Edalji's myopia (first noticed by Arthur Conan Doyle himself in a similar scenario to when John notices it) and Doyle's theorised solution to the mutilations. Some characters have been invented; the most obvious one is Sarah. Character-assassination of the real George Edalji, or anyone else, was not intended; this is basically a work of fiction.


End file.
